Collision Course
by chazper
Summary: What happens to the Cohens 1 when Seth’s and Ryan’s friendship is shattered? A season 2 story. Chapter 26. COMPLETE. Thanks to Schwartz and company for the loan of the characters.
1. Default Chapter

**Chapter 1**

"Okay, Ryan, so here's what I'm thinking we should do tonight, and I'm sure you'll agree that it will add a new definition to the word 'Fun' "

As usual, Seth was in mid-conversation before he ever stepped into the pool house, but he stopped abruptly inside the door. Just as he'd expected, Ryan's homework supplies were spread out on his bed, but Ryan wasn't studying. He and Lindsay lay twined together, surrounded by somewhat crumpled notebooks and some runaway pencils. At the sound of Seth's voice, they pulled away from each other, their faces flushed, lips bruised, and hair disheveled.

"Ah. Lindsay. You're here. Right. Well, that's cool. It just means I need to make a few revisions, adjust the itinerary of the night for three people instead of two. . ." Seth plopped down on the foot of the bed. He smiled obliviously as Lindsay scrambled to sit up and pull her top back in place.

Ryan shifted so that he blocked Lindsay from Seth's view. "Seth," he growled. "Not a good time."

"Au contraire, mon frere, it looked like a good time to me. Not that I was looking, because I wouldn't do that"

Ryan's foot shot out and kicked Seth to the floor as Lindsay, blushing furiously, grabbed her purse and bolted for the door.

"I should go," she stammered. "Ryan, you'll call me about . . . you know . . . and I'll see you . . . or I'll call you . . . so just . . . good night."

"Lindsay, wait," Ryan protested, but she shook her head so vigorously that her hair veiled her face, and left.

Ryan glared down at Seth, who lay sprawled where he had landed. "Really nice, Seth. Can't thank you enough."

"Well, come on, Ryan. How was I to know you weren't just in here being all Stuart Student?"

"Door closed? Blinds drawn? Buy a clue, man."

"Buy a lock," Seth countered. "Seriously, Ryan. At least put it on next year's Chrismukkah list. It will make life less complicated for all of us."

Ryan sighed and ran a hand through his hair as Seth sat up. He knew what was coming.

"So, I guess it's just the two of us after all since Auntie Mame left . . . "

"Seth," Ryan warned.

"Auntie Em? Auntie Bellum? Ryan, bro, sing it with me: we are fam-i-ly."

"Lindsay and I are **not** family, Seth." Ryan bit his lip, hearing how icy his voice sounded. He paused, then tried for patience. "We've been through this. There is no real connection between Lindsay and me."

"Hate to point out the obvious, Ryan, but I saw many, many connections between you two when I came in. Real ones too."

"Hate to point out the obvious, Seth, but I will so whip your ass if you don't shut up. And I thought you said you weren't looking."

"I wasn't looking," Seth explained, "but my eyes, they couldn't help the seeing. "

"Don't be glib, Seth."

"I can't help it. Glib is what I am."

"That's one word for it," Ryan muttered, as he began to gather the stray school supplies.

Seth's mouth tightened, but he continued, "Anyway, back on point, Ryan. You're now single for the night, I'm single for the –well, the foreseeable future, unfortunately—and there are worlds out there to conquer. So what do you say? You and me, checking out the action on the pier? I hear there's a new club opening, and since Alex and I broke up, the Bait Shop just isn't what I consider congenial anymore. I really need a new venue, a new forum, a new space . . ."

"You really need to come up for air. Take a breath, Seth."

"Okay, breathing now. But you're on board, right?" Seth prompted. "Or on bike? Or I bet we could have the Rover tonight."

"Not tonight."

"No? Because I don't think Mom is using it . . . "

Ryan straightened the covers on his bed, smoothing out the wrinkles regretfully. Then he made a neat stack of his notebooks and turned to open his school bag. "No," he said over his shoulder. "I mean, I'm not up for going out tonight."

"Not the books," Seth groaned. "Come on, Ryan. You were up for Lindsay. Well, I don't mean 'up' for Lindsay . . . Or that too, but anyway, you know what I mean. All you ever do anymore is study or spend time with Lindsay, or sometimes you consolidate and you study with Lindsay, with is very efficient of you, but come on, Ryan. It's lonely here in singles land."

"Those aren't the only things I do, Seth."

"Do you want to see the proof? I can show you bar graphs, line graphs, or my personal favorite, pie charts. Pie charts never lie, Ryan."

"You're ridiculous, Seth."

"Fine. I am. Ridiculous. And lonely."

And then they stopped suddenly, because they both heard it: the edge of real annoyance in Ryan's voice, the undercurrent of bitterness in Seth's. Ryan set his book down and kneaded his knuckles; Seth stared at the ceiling.

It was safer and easier to pretend that they had just heard each other's words, and not the way they had been said. Then it was just their normal banter, and they weren't taking aim at each other. Even though that's exactly what they were doing.

"Look, Seth," Ryan began after a moment, "You've got other people you could hang out with tonight. What about . . . ?"

"Stop, Ryan. If you were about to suggest anything that includes the names 'Summer and Zack', stop. Just. Stop."

"I thought you were all friends."

"Yes," Seth agreed, sketching a triangle shape in the air. "We are all friends. They, however, are a couple, so our friendship, Ryan, it is a triangle, and that's not a friendly shape at all. Now if Alex and I were still together, we could all be a square. Or Alex and I and you and Lindsay could be a square. And what happens when you round the angles of a square, dude? Why, you get a circle, all harmonious and peace on earth and kumbaya. But what happens when you round the angles of a triangle? All you get is a triangle with no point. Or points. In other words, it's pointless."

He opened his hands and let them fall.

Ryan closed his book with a snap. "Seth," he said, and he couldn't keep the exasperation out of his voice, "you're just talking for the sake of talking now. It's like you think if you keep it up, I'll just give in and go with you because I can't concentrate anyway."

"Is it working?" Seth asked hopefully.

"No. I'm just not going out tonight, Seth."

"Okay. Well, that's cool. So we'll just hang out here. You can help me work out the fine points of my re-enter the social-scene strategy. See, I'm thinking that maybe it's just a matter of tweaking the wardrobe, you know, changing it up . . ."

"Seth, the problem's not your wardrobe."

"No? Good. So . . . wait. There's a problem?"

"No. I just mean . . . the problem's that I can't hang out with you tonight. Seriously, man, Lindsay really was here to help me with this, well, project. And it's important."

"Yeah." Seth's mouth twisted caustically. "I could see how hard you were both working."

"We had been working," Ryan insisted. "We were just . . . taking a break when you came in. But I do have to get back to it. And . . . why do I have to justify this to you anyway? I have things to do and you . . . have to leave."

Ryan pulled Seth to his feet and propelled him toward the door.

"Whatever happened to Seth-Ryan time, man?" Seth protested. "Whatever happened to 'united, we're unstoppable'?"

He turned at the door and faced Ryan.

"I mean it. What's happened to us here, Ryan?" He searched Ryan's face, then shook his head. "Never mind," he said, defeated. "I'll just go."

Ryan bit the inside of his cheek.

He watched Seth take two steps, sighed, and then called, "Seth, wait. I'm sorry. Look, I really do have to work tonight. But I owe you, okay? So next time you suggest doing something, I'm in. Promise."

"Yeah?" Seth asked. His voice was still tight, and it contained an undercurrent of doubt, but Ryan decided to ignore it. "You promise? Okay, then. Have fun with your big, thick, boring books. And don't worry about me, or anything. I'll find something to do. Alone."

Seth was late coming down to breakfast the next morning, and when he did appear, he was uncharacteristically quiet.

Kirsten frowned at him, concerned. "What's the matter, sweetie? Don't you feel well?"

Seth shrugged. "I'm fine."

"That's it?" Sandy asked, surprised. "You're fine? That may be the shortest answer ever from the mouth of Seth Cohen. No riffs on just how fine you are, son?"

"Sandy!" Kirsten scolded. She waited for the boys to laugh or make sarcastic comments, but they didn't. Ryan just twirled his spoon around in his cereal bowl, and Seth shrugged and slumped onto a stool.

"I don't want to, like, talk just for the sake of talking." Seth darted a glance at Ryan before hiding behind the Arts and Leisure section.

Ryan caught the puzzled look that Sandy and Kirsten exchanged, and he felt a flash of guilt and remorse. But mixed up in those feelings, there was anger too.

He stood up abruptly. "I'm just gonna . . . head out now."

Sandy frowned. "You don't want to wait for a ride?"

"Nah. I can ride my bike."

Ryan grabbed his schoolbag. As he headed for the door he could hear Seth saying, "Probably has to meet Lindsay early. Or study. Or both. You know, they've got that whole Curies-working-for-the-Nobel-Prize thing going on."

Once Ryan left, Seth filled the silence by reading aloud an article about the upcoming summer movies. Then he put his newspaper away and launched into a long, involved analysis of the decline of the cinematic blockbuster and the artistic vapidity of sequels, Spiderman 2 being the exception that proved his point. He paused only to wave goodbye to his mother when she left for work, and to chew a few bites of bagel.

"Nice to know you got over that 'not wanting to talk' thing, Seth," Sandy observed dryly. "I've just got to get some files from my office, and we'll go. Wouldn't want you to be late."

The kitchen was too quiet when Seth was alone. He rolled up the newspaper and began tapping an erratic rhythm on the counter.

He hated the silence. And that was a problem, because he had the feeling that somehow he and Ryan had wound up on the verge of not speaking to each other. Seth wasn't quite sure how that had happened, except that he was sick of begging for morsels of time from the person who was supposed to be his best friend. He hated the long-suffering look that Ryan would get sometimes when he was talking; it made Seth feel like everything he said was completely inconsequential, and Ryan was just humoring him by listening. Mostly, Seth resented the sotto voce sarcastic comments that Ryan made lately about his incessant rambling and his selfishness and his continued Summer-obsession. He strongly suspected that they weren't really meant in fun. They certainly weren't funny.

But none of that stopped Seth from being lonely, or from missing his and Ryan's old Butch and Sundance partnership.

"Ready, son?" Sandy called.

Seth threw out the newspaper and grabbed his schoolbag.

"Yeah," he said listlessly. "Ready.

Ryan sat in the school library, absently chewing the end of his pen.

There was something wrong with the equation. He couldn't figure it out. Being back with the Cohens + dating drama-free Lindsay + doing well in school + actually being able to envision a future that included college, and a career (not just a job) should happiness.

And Ryan was happy. Just not . . . quite. Not as much as he should be after adding everything up.

He knew the reason, but he hated to admit it: Seth.

Lately, Ryan found himself getting irritated with Seth, annoyed at his need to dominate every conversation, his surprise and inopportune visits to the pool house. He begrudged the feckless schemes Seth concocted, and the way he manipulated Ryan into joining them, or made Ryan feel guilty on those rare occasions when he did refuse.

In particular, Ryan resented Seth for refusing to let go of the person Ryan had been when he first came to Newport. Every time Seth mentioned wrist cuffs, or chokers, or fights, or bad boys, Ryan cringed. After his claustrophobic summer in Chino with Theresa, when all he could imagine was a life of calluses, sweat and crushing responsibility, Ryan had consciously put away all reminders of his past.

He hadn't thrown them away. Ryan still knew where he came from. He knew that Chino and everything it represented would always be a part of him. But he was trying so hard to move forward. Sometimes Ryan thought that Seth actually resented him for that, for trying to exorcise his old demons and build a new life for himself.

But Seth was his best friend. They should be enjoying Ryan's hard-earned sense of security and hope together. Seth should be adding to Ryan's happiness, not subtracting from it.

Ryan frowned. He shook his head like a swimmer emerging from water, and forced his mind back to the real physics equations that he was supposed to be solving. He was nearly finished when Lindsay slid into the seat next to him at the study table.

"Good morning." Her smile looked innocent, almost prim. But her fingers managed to brush up and down his arm as she arranged her supplies, and underneath the table her calf rubbed against his.

Ryan ducked his head and grinned.

"Did you get any work done last night after Seth left?"

"More than I'm going to get done now." His voice dropped an octave. "Lindsay . . . "

"I know." She laughed softly. "I'm shameless. I just . . . missed you last night." She pulled her leg away and sat up straight. "So, is Seth okay? What did he want to do last night anyway?"

Ryan sighed, realizing that Seth had interrupted them again, without even being there.

"I don't know. He just wanted some company . . . " Ryan shifted uncomfortably, remembering Seth's face, and the feeling that things unsaid—things better left unsaid—were hanging in the air between them. There was no way he could explain that to Lindsay. He didn't understand it himself.

"Does that mean that you didn't finish your prospectus?" Lindsay's voice rose, anxious. "Ryan, it was almost done. Please tell me you finished. You have to fax it in today to meet the application deadline. The final interviews are next week . . . "

"It's done," Ryan assured her. "I'm sorry we didn't get to go over it together the way we did with yours, but it's done. And I already faxed it in."

"Oh, good." Lindsay visibly relaxed, and her foot began sliding along Ryan's leg again. "So now we just have to wait and find out if we're invited for the final interviews."

"Right. The interview. Meeting with the advisory panel. I could deal with the prospectus. But talking? Really not my thing, Lindsay."

"Well, Seth could help you prepare. Or Sandy. I'm sure they could give you tips to get through the interview process."

Ryan smiled in spite of himself. "Seth and Sandy, talking about talking? They'd love it. But I haven't told any of the Cohens about the internship," he admitted.

"Why not? Ryan, it was an honor just to be nominated for it. They'd be proud of you for getting this far."

Ryan knew that was true, at least of Sandy and Kirsten. But he didn't want to tell them just that he'd been nominated for an academic award. He wanted to win the internship, and then to offer it to them as a kind of thanks for everything they'd done. Or maybe, if Ryan was honest with himself, it was more than that: getting the internship would also prove, to them and to him. that he might actually be worth all the attention, support, and trust they'd invested, all the opportunities they'd offered him.

But Ryan had kept the competition secret from Seth for a different reason. Seth constantly mocked his study habits, and how hard he worked to keep up his GPA. This internship mattered too much to Ryan for him to let it become a punch line for one of Seth's jokes.

"I'll just . . . tell them if it all works out," Ryan hedged. "And you know, Lindsay, you're pretty good at talking too. I thought you could coach me for the interview . . . assuming I get one."

Behind a stack of their textbooks, Lindsay laced her fingers through Ryan's. "You will," she predicted. "Your application was great, you've got wonderful recommendations . . . Oh, Ryan, imagine how perfect it would be if we both won internships. Six weeks together at UCLA this summer. . . getting paid to study and research with graduate students. . . and it will look so good on our college applications."

"On scholarship applications too. But Lindsay, they're only offering three internships total. For us to get two of them would be pretty amazing."

"True. But I've learned recently that amazing things can happen. " Lindsay glanced around, then leaned over and kissed him. "I've learned," she whispered, "a lot lately."

Ryan's hand cupped her cheek. "A. Plus. Student," he murmured, kissing her back.

Mrs. Christenson, the librarian, cleared her throat. "Mr. Atwood. Miss Gardner. May I remind you . . .?"

"Ah . . . Right," Ryan conceded. "No PDAs."

He and Lindsay scooted their chairs away from each other. As far as Mrs. Christenson could see, they were model students, working industriously on their assignments for the rest of the period. Of course, she couldn't see under the table.

Seth was very proud of himself.

For the past week, he had made a concerted effort to give Ryan some space. He hadn't made any unannounced forays to the pool house. He hadn't barged in to report when he saw Summer turn on her heel and stomp away from Zack outside the coffee bar yesterday afternoon (even though that was a very promising sign and really deserved at least three solid hours of speculation, and the creation of half a dozen contingency plans.) When the new comic books came out, he hadn't insisted that Ryan accompany him to the store, and when Ryan announced after a mere half-hour of Halo2 that he didn't feel like playing another game, Seth didn't cajole or wheedle, or even point out the fact that, considering the score, Ryan had barely been playing at all.

He thought his avoidance tactics might be working, in the whole absence-making-the-heart-grow-fonder way, because Ryan had seemed preoccupied lately. Almost broody, in a way Seth hadn't seen in quite a while. It was, he decided, a clear indication that Ryan was ready for some classic Seth-Ryan time.

And now Seth had that time all planned: a day trip on Saturday to Santa Monica to an industry conference where four major video game manufacturers were test-marketing new products. Seth had scored two free tickets by beating out other contenders in an online competition.

"Hundreds of people," he told Ryan excitedly. "Correction. Hundreds of thousands, probably. These were much coveted tickets, dude, major black market value, and they're ours, courtesy of my mouse-maneuvering ability and my nimble thumb."

"Saturday, huh?" Ryan asked.

"Yeah, Saturday. Is that a problem? 'Cause Ryan, you totally told me that the next time I asked you to do something . . . And come on, we get to preview new video games, have some actual input, be on the cutting edge, ahead of the curve." When Ryan said nothing, Seth added, just a little petulantly, "I thought you'd enjoy this. But if you have something else to do . . . some studying maybe . . . "

Ryan closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't have anything else to do. Lindsay had gotten a call on Monday informing her that she was a finalist for the UCLA internship and inviting her to a 9:30 interview on Saturday. It was Thursday now. And Ryan had heard nothing.

Around Lindsay, who continued to be stubbornly optimistic, Ryan pretended to believe that he still had a chance. Privately, though, he knew he didn't, and he was surprised how much that knowledge hurt.

Since coming back from Chino in the fall, he'd learned to hope, even to expect good things. He'd forgotten how dangerous hope could be. You should have known better, Ryan thought to himself.

Out loud he said, "It sounds great, Seth. It sounds awesome."

"So we're good to go?" Ryan was saying the right words, but he didn't look excited or even interested, so Seth couldn't be sure.

"Yeah." Ryan swallowed his disappointment about the internship—which, he decided had never been a real possibility anywayand smiled at Seth, who was looking both eager and anxious. "I don't have anything else to do on Saturday, Seth. We're good to go."

"Ryan? Hey, Ryan? Okay if I enter the fortress of solitude? I left my iPod here—or at least I think I did, since it wasn't in the first three hundred places I checked."

Seth stood outside the pool house, covering his bases by knocking and calling at the same time. There was no answer, but Seth still opened the door cautiously, his hand over his eyes, just in case. He peeked through his fingers, saw that he was obviously alone, and began his search mission.

Just as he spotted his iPod and grabbed it with a cocky "Eureka!" Ryan's phone rang. Seth heard the call transfer to the answering machine and was halfway to the door when the message began.

"Mr. Atwood? This is Maureen Dugan from the summer internship selections board. I would like to invite you to an interview this Saturday, the fifteenth. You're scheduled for 9:45 in the conference room in Hayden Hall. Please let me know if you have any questions. We look forward to seeing you on Saturday."

Seth froze.

The message made no sense to him. It was almost like a foreign language, or some kind of code. Ryan hadn't said anything about any internship or interview. In fact, he had distinctly said that he didn't have anything to do on Saturday.

Clearly, Seth deduced, the message meant nothing. Ryan would have told Seth if he needed to be anywhere important on Saturday. He definitely wouldn't have agreed to spend a day playing video games—even state-of-the-art, not-yet-available-to-the-general-public games—if he planned to go to some interview. Whatever this internship deal was, Seth figured it was pretty obvious that Ryan had already decided it wasn't worth his time.

So why complicate things? Especially when he and Ryan had a chance to spend a day together and reestablish the old balance in their relationship.

Seth's finger hovered over the answering machine. He hesitated just for a moment. Then he reached down and deleted the message.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Collision Course   
Chapter 2 

"So, Ryan, big day tomorrow, right?"

Ryan jerked, startled, and his thumbs pressed two crescent-shaped scars into the hamburger bun he was holding.

"Big . . . day?" he echoed warily.

Sandy turned around from the grill and set a platter of burgers on the patio table. "Seth has been going on and on about it. The great video game extravaganza."

Ryan relaxed. Sandy wasn't talking about the interview. Of course not, because Ryan hadn't been invited to interview, and the Cohens didn't know anything about the internship anyway.

"So I gather this video test-marketing deal is some sort of dream activity. Sort of like attending a fantasy football camp."

Ryan raised his eyebrows, incredulous. "Seth? Compared it to football?"

"Nah, that was me," Sandy laughed. "So, are you as excited as he is?"

"Nobody's ever as excited as Seth," Ryan observed dryly.

"Truer words, kid . . . Hey, Kirsten, Seth, dinner is ready!"

Kirsten emerged from the kitchen balancing a bowl of salad in one hand and a tray of condiments in the other. Seth followed, empty-handed except for a bag slung over his arm. He was holding his fists in the air and flexing his thumbs rapidly.

"I thought you were bringing the drinks. Seth. And what are you doing?" Kirsten demanded as her son slid into a chair.

"Conditioning exercises, Mom. My thumb muscles and reflexes have to be primed and ready-to-play tomorrow."

"I'll get the drinks," Ryan offered.

"Mountain Dew for me, man. And hey, Ryan, you should do a little practicing yourself. Develop some speed and endurance for tomorrow. I'd hate to see you fade before the finish."

Ryan rolled his eyes and went to get the drinks. When he returned, Kirsten and Sandy were staring at Seth's plate, which was loaded with potato salad and a tower of five hamburger buns.

"Carbo-loading," he explained. "An athlete prepares. Or, wait, maybe I should be concentrating on protein. That might be better for hand-eye coordination." Seth slid his plate over to Ryan, sending hamburger buns skidding off the table. "Here, dude, have some starch. Dad, could you pass me the tray of burgers? . . .. . . So, Ryan, I've made a mix of travel music for us. What do you think?"

Ryan looked at the CD that Seth handed him. "I think these are all your favorite songs."

"Yes, true. But it's all in the arrangement, dude. See, the way I've done it, the songs build in intensity. We start slow and easy, go through some mid-tempo numbers, and end with a few that, I admit, are thisclose to serious heavy metal. By the time we get to Santa Monica, our adrenaline will be flowing, and we will be pumped, my man."

"Just like football players charging onto the field," Sandy offered.

"Yeah, whatever, dad. Also, Ryan, because I know that you're never happy anymore unless you have homework, I've prepared a little light reading for you tonight." Seth dug into his bag and handed Ryan a folder. "Inside here you'll find information on all four companies that are going to be presenting tomorrow. Previous products, target audiences, marketing schemes. I figure the more we know about them, the better feedback we can give, the more impressed the manufacturers will be with us. See the strategy, dude? We could come out of this with endorsement deals."

"Yeah, because we're so famous and the world so cares what games we play."

"Not the right attitude, Atwood. Just listen to the master, all right? Read, study, learn. There will be a quiz tomorrow over breakfast . . . Oral, not written. Don't worry, buddy. An hour or three burning the midnight oil and you can ace it."

"You don't have plans with Lindsay tonight, Ryan?" Kirsten asked.

"Yeah, kid. I expected her to join us for dinner. Who's going to eat the veggie burgers I made?"

"The garbage disposal?" Seth suggested.

Ryan lowered his gaze and poked patterns into his tomato slices. "Lindsay's going to bed early tonight. She's . . . got a busy day tomorrow."

"Good thing you have one too then, right, dude?" Seth glanced across the table at Ryan. He swallowed and added uncertainly, "I mean, unless something's come up? If you have something better to do and want to cancel . . ."

Ryan cocked his head, lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. "Nah, I told you buddy, I'm in."

"Great. Because trust me, Ryan, this is going to be a day to remember—a classic Seth-Ryan road trip."

"God," Sandy groaned. "I hope not."

"No, no, not Tijuana/Palm Springs/L.A. classic," Seth promised. "More like Vegas classic, without the trucker hat." He flashed Ryan a conspiratorial grin, but Ryan was still examining his salad.

"I'll be . . . back in a minute," he said suddenly and left the table.

"Is something wrong, Ryan?" Kirsten called, but Ryan merely waved back at her. He didn't answer.

"Nervous about his skills, that's all." Seth nodded sagely. "He's just afraid that he'll be shown up by superior talent tomorrow, like that of, oh, Mr. Seth Cohen. Dad, would you pass me the mustard? Mustard won't kill the protein effect, will it?"

--------------------------

Inside the pool house Ryan leaned against the door and took a heavy breath. His hand automatically reached for the phone to call Lindsay, but then he dropped it back onto the nightstand.

If he called her, he'd just upset her, and Ryan didn't want to do anything to ruin her chances at the interview tomorrow. It had been hard enough to persuade her to go through with it at all.

"_Why should I?" Lindsay had raged that afternoon in her bedroom. "I don't even want it now . . ."_

"_Yes, you do," Ryan argued. He caught her arm as she paced and pulled her down to sit on the bed with him._

_Lindsay grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pressed her face into the curve of his neck. "I don't," she insisted, and Ryan felt tears running into the hollow of his collarbone. Her voice became high and erratic. "It's meaningless now. If the selections committee isn't even interviewing the best candidates . . . "_

"_They are. They're interviewing you."_

"_They're not interviewing **you**. I hate them." _

_Ryan made a sound, almost, but not quite, a laugh, and Lindsay repeated fiercely. "I do. I hate them. But you know what? I am going to go to that interview. I'm going to go and I'm going to tell the panel that . . . that their selection process is laughable . . . and their internship is worthless, and that they can just . . . they can just . . . just "_

"_Lindsay . . . " Ryan brushed her hair back from her face. With his other hand, he cupped her chin, rubbing his thumb along her jaw line. "Don't cry," he whispered. "Please? I don't want to spoil this for you."_

_Lindsay kissed his palm, then nestled back against his shoulder. "But Ryan, this doesn't make any sense. It just doesn't. Your grades are as good as mine. Your letters of recommendation were better. And your application was . . . it was amazing. They have to see that you're brilliant."_

_Ryan chuckled, warm and low. "Brilliant, huh? 'Cause I seem to remember when we met . . . "_

"_Don't remind me." Lindsay shuddered. "I was such a bitch. I'll never understand why you forgave me."_

"_You apologized. Besides, I had . . . other reasons." Ryan began to trace small circles on Lindsay's waist where her top had ridden up. Gradually, he let his fingers inch higher._

"_And now you're trying to distract me."_

"_Among other things."_

_Lindsay leaned into his kiss, but when she looked up, her eyes were still brimming, tear-bright. "I mean it, Ryan," she whispered. "I really don't want to do this without you." _

It had taken another hour, but Ryan finally convinced Lindsay that she owed it to herself to go to the interview and win one of the internships. He was afraid that if he called her now, he'd say the wrong thing, or else she'd hear the wrong thing—the misery in his voice—and she'd back out after all.

"Ryan? Hey, dude!" Seth called. "Your drink's getting warm and your burger's getting cold. Get out here and finish eating. I'll meet you in the living room. We can play some of those soon-to-be-obsolete games to warm up for tomorrow."

Ryan pressed his the heels of his hands over his eyes, inhaled deeply, blew out the air, and went to rejoin the family.

---------------------------------

"Hey, Seth. You and Ryan call it quits for the night already?"

Sandy dropped unceremoniously onto the couch next to his son and picked up the abandoned joystick.

"Well, Ryan did," Seth said vaguely. He didn't take his eyes off the mayhem he was creating on the television screen.

"Mind if I play? Your mother's deserted me to run some errands, and I'm trying to avoid reading some deadly dull legal briefs."

Seth shrugged and reset the game.

"So, you guys all set for tomorrow? You have the directions? The car's gassed up?"

"Yes, yes, and isn't gassing the car the owner's responsibility?" Sandy raised his ample eyebrows and Seth amended, "I mean, yeah, gassed, washed, lubed, whatever."

"Don't say 'lubed', Seth . . . " They played in silence for a few minutes. Then Sandy observed, "I'm glad you and Ryan are going to spend some time together tomorrow. You've seemed a little . . . distant . . . with each other lately." He kept his tone deliberately casual. "Your mom and I thought we've picked up some tension. We've been . . . well, not concerned, exactly. Just . . . curious."

Seth dropped his joystick and sat up. "Okay, see. You noticed it too." He sounded triumphant, even though onscreen his player died a grisly death. "I was right. Ryan hasn't been himself. He's been, like, totally off lately."

"That's not exactly what I said . . . "

"The guy's stuck in some kind of nerd-rut, dad. He studies, he hangs out with Lindsay, he's all about school. He hardly ever wants to talk about anything that matters to me, and he's got like a million better things to do whenever I make any plans. I mean, even tomorrow . . ."

Seth broke off abruptly. He felt twin stabs of shame and guilt, remembering that Ryan didn't know he had something else to do tomorrow. Maybe not something better, but still . . .

For the thousandth time since he had left the pool house the day before, Seth wondered what the hell had happened in there. He hadn't intended to delete the message, not consciously anyway. His hand had just seemed to move automatically, disconnected from any decision Seth made.

Mentally, he kept replaying details of that moment: his finger pressing, the delete button clicking, the accusing silence that followed. He knew he had made a terrible mistake, but no matter how hard he tried, Seth couldn't figure out a way to confess. Well, no, that wasn't true. He could imagine himself confessing; but Ryan would expect an explanation too, and then what could Seth say? "My evil doppelganger did it"? "I had a sudden muscle spasm and accidentally erased your message"? Even Captain Oats hadn't bought those excuses. And facing Ryan without being able to offer some justification . . . Seth shuddered.

Their friendship wouldn't survive, even if Ryan didn't care about the internship.

Not "if", Seth corrected himself. Even "though" Ryan didn't care about the internship.

Because he didn't. Seth was sure of that. He hadn't actually asked, of course. He had been stealth, offering Ryan dozens of chances to back out of their trip, tossing the words "interview" and "intern" into their conversation just so Ryan could pursue the subject, even musing about possible summer plans, and . . . nothing.

Ryan had said nothing. So Seth concluded that was exactly what the interview must mean to him: nothing.

"Seth?" Sandy snapped his fingers in front of his son's face.

"Huh? . . . Oh. Dad. Sorry. So, what? Want to play again?"

"You know, son, when you zone out like that, son. I'm always afraid I'll wake up the next day to find llamas grazing in the yard or something."

"Llamas? Dad, c'mon. I am really not into animals that chew cud. Whatever cud is."

"Good to know. So, you were saying . . . about tomorrow?"

"Oh, yeah, that." Seth fidgeted, trying to regroup. "It's just, you know, another example of what I'm talking about. Me, having to make all the plans, Ryan being all reluctant and glass-half-empty about them. Plus, the guy almost never laughs at my jokes anymore, and dad, that? Is a serious warning sign. Because if nothing else, I am funny, right?"

"I think we would all agree that you're funny, Seth," Sandy said dryly.

Seth nodded with renewed animation. "So, I mean, who is this guy? Because it's not the Ryan Atwood I know. It's like he's become some kind of Stepford Friend. Maybe, you know, it's time for a parental sit-down. Find out what his problem is . . . work through his issues . . ."

"Seth," Sandy interjected, "I'm not convinced that Ryan has a problem."

Seth stared at his father skeptically and Sandy explained, "Think about it, son. Of course he and Lindsay hang out a lot. When you and Summer were dating you did too. . . You spent as much time with her as Ryan spends with Lindsay."

"That was entirely different," Seth argued.

"Because you were the one doing it."

"No. I mean . . . no." Seth floundered and concluded weakly, "It just . . . it wasn't the same."

"And Ryan took his schoolwork seriously last year too. Maybe he's a little more intense about it now, but that's probably because he's starting to think about college. You know, Seth, Ryan probably never considered college a real possibility before."

"Yeah . . . but it's not like he has to work all the time," Seth muttered. He grabbed a handful of chips and bit into them viciously, sending crumbs flying everywhere.

Sandy moved the bowl out of Seth's reach. "This year's been pretty rough for you hasn't it, son?"

"Okay, dad, now you're changing the subject. Sure, you're changing it to talk about me, so you think I won't mind, but . . ."

"All right, maybe 'rough' isn't the right word. But I know it's been something of a letdown . . ."

"Letdown? No. Come on, dad . . . I'm just, you know, pacing myself. I don't want to peak at seventeen and show up on some 'Where Are They Now' list when I'm twenty-one."

"Last year was pretty exciting," Sandy recalled. "Ryan comes to live with us. You gain a best friend, a whole new social life. You have two really hot girls vying for your attention . . . "

Seth choked. "Vying? Who says vying? And Dad, the word 'hot'? Really should not be part of your vocabulary unless you're talking about the weather."

"I know a hot girl when I see one, Seth. But I'm just saying that it's natural if you're a little disappointed with how things have turned out this year. So you overcompensate . . ."

"That's not what's going on," Seth insisted. "It's Ryan who's different, not me. Come on, dad, tell the truth. You don't think Ryan has changed?"

"I think," Sandy said slowly, "that Ryan seems happier. He's settled here now. He's more secure. He's not constantly looking over his shoulder and second-guessing himself. Those are good things, right, Seth?"

"Yeah . . . I suppose."

Sandy patted Seth's shoulder sympathetically. "People don't stay the same, son, not even when we want them to. They grow, they change. That means relationships have to change too if we want them to last. You and Ryan . . . you have a pretty special friendship. Just hold onto that, okay?"

Seth nodded tersely. "Hey, I'm trying," he muttered.

"You two guys have fun tomorrow," Sandy urged. He stood up, ruffling his son's hair. "Make sure you call when you get there . . . And son . . . don't leave this place a mess when you go to bed, okay? Good night."

"Yeah. Night," Seth said as Sandy left the room. He started to put away the game, then threw the joystick down in disgust.

Somehow the prospect of Seth-Ryan time the next day had lost a lot of its appeal.

---------------------------------------------

Kirsten poured herself a drink, ready to turn out the lights and join Sandy upstairs when she noticed the pool house door open and then close. She watched as Ryan slouched down on the edge of the pool. He pulled up the legs of his sweatpants and dropped his feet in the water. Then he leaned back, braced on his arms, lifting his face toward the moonless sky.

Kirsten debated, wondering if this was one of those times when Ryan wanted privacy. She could usually intuit his mood, though, and tonight, he just seemed . . . lonely. She decided to join him; if he didn't want company, she would just say a quick good night and go on up to bed.

At the last minute, before she went outside, she poured out her wine and grabbed a couple of soft drinks. More than once, she'd noticed Ryan watching her when she drank. He never said anything, but Kirsten sensed disapproval behind his veiled eyes, and the shadow of memories that she really didn't want to dredge up for him.

"Hey," she said quietly as she sat down next to him. "This seat taken?"

Ryan blinked at her in surprise, then smiled and shook his head.

Kirsten slipped off her shoes, easing her feet into the water.

"Caffeine-free," she observed, handing Ryan a can of soda. "Looks like you're having enough trouble getting to sleep."

"Nah . . . Well, maybe a little. I just thought I'd come out here, clear my head."

Kirsten wanted to ask what was keeping him awake, but even though Ryan had become more forthcoming lately, she knew that sometimes a circuitous approach was the best way to reach him.

"It is nice, isn't it?" she said. "The breeze, the silence, the smell of the ocean . . . Those were some of the things I missed when I wasn't living here."

Ryan nodded. His voice was so soft Kirsten had to strain to hear it. "I missed them too . . . last summer."

She was surprised. He almost never mentioned the time he had spent away from them in Chino. "And we missed you. Last summer was really hard for all of us. I wasn't sure we'd ever find our way back together. But we did."

"Yeah." Kirsten thought he sounded uncertain. "I guess."

"So you and Seth . . . you two are all right?"

"Yeah . . . We're fine. Why? I mean, I sort of blew him off the other day. . . Did he say something?"

"No." Kirsten skimmed her fingers over the surface of the water. "You just don't seem very excited about this video game thing he has planned for the two of you."

"Extravaganza."

"What?"

"With Seth, it's an extravaganza. Anyway, no, it's great. I mean, it'll be fun . . ." Ryan's voice trailed off, and he busied himself drinking his soda.

Kirsten waited for Ryan to continue, but the silence stretched on between them, so she tried again, a different route.

"I stopped over at Lindsay's house tonight to give her a blouse I bought for her. It's such fun to pick out things for a girl. No offense, but your style doesn't give me a lot of options, Ryan. Now, with Seth, I can be a little more imaginative . . ."

"Seth lets you pick out his clothes?"

"Actually, no. Not since he was twelve," Kirsten confessed. "He just lets me pay for them."

Ryan gave her a sympathetic glance. "Did she like it? Lindsay, I mean. Did she like the blouse?"

"I think so. She didn't really say too much. In fact, she seemed a little distracted. Maybe she's nervous about tomorrow." At Ryan's sharp, questioning look, Kirsten explained, "Her mother told me that Lindsay has an interview tomorrow for some summer internship. Did you know about that?"

Ryan dropped his gaze again. His eyes were hooded. "Yeah. It's a pretty big deal, six weeks on campus this summer, working with the physics department there. "

Even in the dark, Kirsten could see that Ryan's jaw had tightened.

"I'm little surprised that you agreed to go to the video thing—excuse me, extravaganza--with Seth. I would have thought you'd like give Lindsay moral support. . . Is that it?" Kirsten asked. "You'd rather go with Lindsay? Because I'm sure Seth would understand if you cancelled."

"I'm not," Ryan said under his breath, and then added, just loud enough for Kirsten to hear, "It's okay. Lindsay's mom is going with her."

Kirsten nodded. She kept her voice neutral. "I'm surprised you didn't apply for the internship yourself, Ryan. It seems like something that would interest you."

Ryan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He bowed his head into his clasped hands.

After a long pause he whispered hoarsely, "I did. I did apply."

"Oh . . . "

"I was going to tell you . . . if I got it. But they didn't invite me to interview."

"Ryan . . ." Kirsten began, but it seemed as though, having made his confession, Ryan needed to explain everything.

"I shouldn't have expected it . . . But things have just been going so well for me this year. And I've been working hard, so I thought I had a chance. I thought I could do something . . . to make you and Sandy proud. You know, glad that I came back, and not just . . . that I brought Seth home."

Kirsten caught her breath. "God, Ryan . . . Is that what you thought? Oh, sweetie, no. Sandy and I were more than glad that you came home. We were overjoyed. And we would have felt exactly the same way even if Seth hadn't come with you." She clasped his hand until Ryan raised his eyes to hers.

"You're Ryan," Kirsten said firmly. "We see you, not Seth's shadow. And you never have to prove yourself to us, or justify your place in this family."

Ryan gave her a small, shy smile. "Thanks."

Kirsten leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then she pulled her feet out of the water, lacing her arms around her knees.

"I know how you feel," she told him. "About the interview, I mean. I went through the same thing."

"You did?"

Kirsten nodded. "I was a junior in college and I had a chance to go to Paris to study the grand masters. But there were only half a dozen slots in the program. Oh, Ryan, I wanted one of them so much. I slaved over my application. I even wrote my essay in French to impress the judges."

"Didn't it? It would have impressed me."

"I think the judges just considered it pretentious. Maybe it was. Anyway, I never heard from them. Not one word. Not even a 'thanks, but no thanks.'"

Ryan shook his head in disbelief.

"So . . . do you think any less of me now that you know?"

"What?" Ryan's voice was startled. "No. Of course not."

"Well, I don't think any less of you either. It took courage just to try, Ryan. And, sweetie, you'll have other opportunities, and when you do, I want you to be just as brave and. . ."

"Try, try again . . . ?"

"Exactly." Kirsten got to her feet and brushed off her skirt. She took Ryan's hand, pulling him up. "And now, young man, time for bed. Get some sleep. You're spending the whole day with Seth tomorrow. You'll need your strength."

Ryan laughed. Then, shyly, he brushed his lips against her cheek in a fleeting kiss. "Good night, Kirsten," he said. "And . . . thanks."

-----------------------------------------------

Seth paused outside the pool house, juggling his backpack, a small cooler, a CD case, and a bag of miscellaneous supplies as he tried to reach the doorknob. That morning he had decided, metaphorically, to lock away those nagging imps of guilt and self-recrimination. He and Ryan were committed to this outing, and Seth decided that they would do it in full Cohen style.

"Hey, Ryan," he called. "A little help here . . ."

Ryan opened the door. "Lewis and Clark traveled with less," he said wryly, catching the bag before it fell to the floor.

"You mock me, but you'll be grateful later on. I think you'll find that I've anticipated our every need."

Ryan took a magnifying glass and a combination flashlight/radio/CD player out of the bag. "And we'll need these . . . when exactly?" he asked.

"You never know. But when we do, I'll have them. So . . . " Seth looked around. "Where's your stuff? Aren't you ready to go, bro?"

"Not quite." Ryan picked up his wallet and shoved it into his jeans pocket. He grabbed his black hooded sweatshirt and put it on. "Now I'm ready."

"And again he mocks me. Well, fine. See if I share my Oreos with you, dude."

"Why did you bring all this stuff in here anyway? Why didn't you just load it into the Rover?"

"Now see, that's what I had planned to do. But then Mom said she needed to use the car to run a ten-minute errand, so I decided to be generous. Even though it puts us ten minutes behind schedule."

"You decided to be generous. Letting your mom use her own car."

"Right. And now she's been gone, let's see, six minutes, so we might as well get everything organized outside."

As Seth bent to gather all his supplies back together the phone rang. He groaned.

"One minute," Ryan promised.

"Okay," Seth conceded, "but only because we're Mom-delayed anyway."

Ryan picked up the phone. Seth drummed his fingers on the table, humming tunelessly. "So I don't eavesdrop . . ." he explained, when Ryan glared at him.

"Would you just be quiet so I can hear?--Hey, Lindsay . . . I thought you'd be on your way by now . . . No, I'm fine, really . . . I'm great. . . Just concentrate on the interview . . . You'll be terrific. . . Lindsay, I want you to get it. . . Really. . . Okay, well, Seth's waiting . . . I've got my cell. Call me and let me know how it goes . . . Yeah. Me too. Bye."

Seth watched him hang up. He saw how Ryan blinked and bit his lip before grabbing the cooler; he heard the hoarse urgency in Ryan's voice when he said, "Let's just get out of here, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Seth agreed. Then, in spite of himself he put his bags back down and asked, "You okay, Ryan? What was that all about? Because you look a little . . . upset."

"No . . . Well, yeah. Your mom knows, so I suppose I might as well tell you too." Ryan paused, twisting the strap of the cooler.

"Ryan . . ." Seth prompted. He shifted from foot to foot, suddenly apprehensive.

"Lindsay and I . . . we were both nominated for science internships at UCLA this summer. Final interviews today, and Lindsay got one. . which is great. I mean, I'm happy for her . . ."

"So this . . . is what happy looks like?"

"No. I . . . didn't make the cut, that's all. And it . . . sort of sucks. But hey." Ryan's mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. "I'll get over it."

Seth tasted something rancid and he swallowed hard. "This internship? You really wanted it? 'Cause you never mentioned it, dude."

Ryan shrugged. "I guess I thought I'd jinx it or something . . . Come on, Seth. Or we won't have time to stop for pancakes on the way."

"Yeah, really not so hungry now. This internship . . . it's pretty major, huh?"

"It would have been, but it's just not happening. Seth, drop it, okay? I really don't . . . even want to even think about it . . . So here's the plan. I'll drive, you navigate. You talk, I'll listen. Classic Seth-Ryan time . . . It's just what I need today—"

Ryan reached for the door but before he could open it, Seth grabbed his arm.

"Ryan . . . Wait—" Seth's fingers tightened involuntarily, and Ryan winced.

"What the hell, Seth?"

"You got an interview, Ryan," Seth blurted. He dropped Ryan's arm and retreated a step, shielding himself with his backpack.

Ryan shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

"They called. Well, some woman did. She said you had an interview today. At 9:30, maybe 9:45, I think. In some room at Hayden Hall." Seth's voice was desperate and imploring.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Ryan repeated thickly. "I never got a call Seth."

"Yeah, you did. Thursday . . . You weren't home. I was in here looking for . . . I don't remember what I was looking for. Anyway, this woman left a message saying that you should come for an interview today."

"You talked to her?"

"No, the answering machine picked up. I just heard the message."

"But I never got a message." Ryan's eyes darkened with simultaneous comprehension and disbelief. "Seth . . . You . . ."

"I deleted it," Seth whispered. He heard the sharp intake of Ryan's breath and saw his fists clench. "Ryan, man, we'd already made our plans for today," he explained frantically. "And you never mentioned anything about an interview—not one word--so I figured it wasn't anything important."

"You figured . . ."

"How was I supposed to know this was something you wanted? You never told me! Ryan, come on, man, I'm sorry. It was just . . . okay, it was a shitty thing to do, and I'm an ass, but look, now you know, right? I mean, I told you the truth—"

"Yeah," Ryan agreed coldly. "You told me the truth. I guess I should thank you for that. So thanks for telling me how you screwed me over, Seth. Thanks a fucking lot."

The pool house rattled as Ryan slammed it open. He grabbed his bike, yanking it so viciously that it overbalanced and fell. Ryan picked it up and threw it down again before he fumbled to set it upright, his knuckles white on the handlebars.

"Ryan, wait a minute. Stop, okay? . . . What are you doing?"

"Oh, right. I forgot. You're in charge of my life," Ryan sneered. "I'm going to see if I can make it to the interview. 'Course, I won't be on time, I won't be prepared, I sure as fucking hell won't get the internship. But at least they won't think that I just didn't give a shit."

"Man, this is crazy. You can't bike all the way there. Listen, mom will have the car back in a minute. Let me drive you," Seth pleaded. "Come on, Ryan."

"I am not going anywhere with you."

"Then I won't come. You take the Rover. Just wait for Mom. Please, Ryan . . . We'll call. We'll say you're gonna be late . . ."

Ryan pushed off. Seth grabbed his skateboard and followed.

He was falling behind by the time Ryan neared the entrance of the development.

"Stop, man!" Seth yelled. "Ryan, would you just wait—"

Ryan kept riding, but at the sound of Seth's voice he spun around.

And then Seth's world imploded.

Everything happened in an instant, but Seth saw it all in slow motion, each detail knife-sharp.

His mother's car pulling around the gatehouse. His mother glancing toward Tony, the guard who on duty, waving her usual greeting.

Ryan looking back over his shoulder, hand raised to fend Seth off, snapping, "Stay the hell away from me, Seth. We're done."

His own hands, flying up, trying to grab air and pull Ryan back, as he screamed out a warning.

Kirsten's face snapping forward, her smile twisted into a rictus of horror.

Ryan's bike plunging forward, towards Kirsten's car, slamming into it like a fist. Ryan pitching over the handlebars, his body shoved violently across the hood, into the windshield, then off the side, where it crumbled onto the cement drive. And lay still.


	3. Collision Course Chapter 3

I really had intended the title Collision Course to be a metaphor. Literal bores me, so I don't quite know how this happened. Ah well . . . I'm hoping after this chapter to get my self-hijacked story back where it was supposed to be headed.

Also, I forgot all about the disclaimer, so: Not even the letters "OC" appear in anything I own.

**Collision Course, Chapter 3 **

Seth could never remember jumping off his skateboard, but he must have, because it rolled on, red and gold flashing in the sun, while he stood where he was, unable to move, unable to breathe.

The sight of blood pooling on the driveway yanked him out of his stupor, and Seth raced the few remaining yards to his mother's car. Ryan's bike lay twisted underneath it. Ryan lay twisted next to it.

By the time Seth reached him, Kirsten and Tony were already crouched next to Ryan's body. The guard was barking information into his cell phone, and Kirsten was moaning "Oh God . . . Ryan, I didn't see you. I didn't see you . . ." over and over. Her hands hovered above Ryan's face, as though she was afraid to touch him.

"Mom—" Seth stopped and began again when he realized that he had not made a sound. "Mom, is he—?"

Kirsten looked up at Seth blankly. Her eyes were glazed with shock and she didn't appear to recognize him.

"Mom!"

"Oh . . . Seth!" She grabbed his outstretched hand, clinging to it desperately as he knelt down next to her. "I didn't see him, baby, I didn't see him . . . I don't understand what happened, how this could have happened . . ."

"Mrs. Cohen," Tony said gently. "The paramedics are on their way."

Kirsten nodded, taking a shaky breath. She dropped Seth's hand and repositioned herself, lifting Ryan's head onto her lap. His eyelids fluttered and he groaned. Seth felt a flash of relief that made him dizzy: Ryan was still alive.

"They said not to move him," Tony warned.

"I know . . ." Kirsten murmured, "but the ground is so hard." She brushed Ryan's hair back from his forehead, then looked in surprise at the blood streaked on his skin, the spread of red on her skirt and her own hand. "I need something—a cloth, a handkerchief. Something. He's bleeding. We have to stop the bleeding. Seth, in my purse . . . "

Seth recognized her tone. Kirsten had snapped from panic into control-mode, calm and efficient, the way he remembered her doing years ago when he split open both knees after a failed skateboard jump. Seth scrambled to the car, grabbed Kirsten's purse and handed it to her. She pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it firmly to the side of Ryan's head. He groaned again.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Kirsten whispered. "I know it hurts . . . I know . . . Seth, call your father."

Seth reached for his cell phone, then realized that it was back by the pool house with the rest of the abandoned road trip supplies.

"Seth! Now!"

Seth looked around wildly.

"Here," Tony offered, registering Seth's desperation and handing over his own phone. "Use mine."

It took three tries to get through. Seth couldn't make his fingers work and he kept misdialing. Finally he heard Sandy's voice on the other end.

"Dad—"

"Hey, Seth. I didn't expect a check-in call this early. I was kidding when I said every hour on the hour--"

"Dad, get home. You have to come home. There was—" Seth swallowed. "There was an accident."

Sandy's voice stiffened. "What happened? Are you okay, Seth? Is anybody hurt? Ryan? Your mother?"

"Yeah . . . Ryan." Seth's voice broke. "Just come home Dad," he pleaded.

"I'm on my way."

Seth returned the cell phone numbly as the police and paramedics arrived. One of the officers helped Kirsten to her feet, pulling her gently when she resisted his efforts to move her away from Ryan. Seth stepped to her side and she wrapped her arms around him.

"My fault," he whispered against her neck, but Kirsten didn't seem to hear him.

Like Seth's, her eyes were fixed on Ryan. She never even reacted when the police officer opened a small notebook, explaining "Ma'am. We have a few questions—"

"I can tell you what happened," Tony interjected. "You don't need to bother Mrs. Cohen now. I saw the accident . . . "

He and the police officer withdrew to the guardhouse, and Kirsten's arms tightened around Seth as the paramedics got to work. They taped a thick bandage to the left side of Ryan's forehead, then slid him onto a backboard and wrapped a cervical collar around his neck. Seth couldn't follow the initials and numbers that they reported tersely into their radio, but he winced when they inserted a needle into the back of Ryan's hand, and when they raised the stretcher to roll it to the ambulance, he automatically moved to follow.

Kirsten's hand on his arm stopped him.

"No, Seth. Wait here for your father. I'll go with Ryan."

"I have to come too," Seth implored. "Mom, please—"

"Honey, I'm sorry. I know you're scared, but only one of us can go. Your dad will bring you to the hospital, I promise." Kirsten squeezed his hand and started to step into the ambulance. She turned at the last minute. "You'll be all right here?"

Seth shook his head. "No."

Tony put a solid arm around Seth's shoulder. "You go, Mrs. Cohen," he urged. "Take care of Ryan. I'll look out for Seth until his dad gets here."

Kirsten mouthed a silent "Thank you" and climbed into the ambulance. It sped away and Seth gasped as the air suddenly seemed to leave his body. He felt Tony's hands ease him to a seat in the open police car. "Put your head between your knees, kid," one of the police officers told him. "Breathe. That's it. Just breathe."

Breathe, Ryan, Seth thought. Just breathe.

----------------------------------------------

"We haven't finished our examination, but I'm confident that none of his injuries are life-threatening," Dr. Hejduk had said.

He'd come out to the waiting room forty minutes ago, asked some questions about Ryan's medical history, delivered that brief reassurance, and then disappeared to run more tests, promising to be back soon.

Soon.

Seth remembered one of his teachers once declaring, "The reality of time is how we perceive it, not how it's measured by clocks or calendars." Seth had smirked, figuring that was just teacher-speak for "Time sure flies when you're having fun," and its reverse, "Time sure drags when you're in a boring class like this one."

Now, though, he completely understood, because the minutes he spent in the waiting room with his distraught parents and his own fear and guilt threatened to become an eternity.

Forty minutes wasn't soon. It was forever.

"What did he mean 'injuries'?" Seth demanded. He had been pacing, but Sandy had finally forced him to sit down. Now he was rocking back and forth, his hands fitfully gripping and releasing the hem of his jacket. "Why didn't he tell us exactly how Ryan's hurt? And what does 'not life-threatening' mean anyway? A few stitches and some happy dreams painkillers, or really, really serious, but maybe he'll recover by the time he's fifty?"

Kirsten whimpered, and Sandy tightened the arm he'd had around her ever since he arrived.

"Seth . . ." he warned. He nodded at Kirsten over her bowed head, and Seth made himself stop.

He knew his mother blamed herself for what had happened, and he knew that it wasn't her fault. It was his, it was all his, and Seth wanted to tell her that, but he couldn't make himself say the words. If he did, it would all be true. Instead he just reached over and covered one of Kirsten's hands with his own. Her skin felt ice cold.

"He woke up in the ambulance," she murmured. She had already reported that fact to Seth and Sandy, but repeating it seemed to comfort her. "Just for a minute, but he looked at me. He knew I was there."

"Ryan's going to be fine," Sandy assured her. Kirsten focused on him as though he was sharing some secret knowledge, and he forced himself to smile. "On the other hand, his bike? It's definitely down for the count, but he needed a new one anyway, right?"

Kirsten nodded. "Right." She tried to return his smile, but she wasn't quite successful.

"What I can't understand," Sandy mused, "is why he was on the bike at all. Weren't you guys about ready to leave, Seth? Where was Ryan going?"

Seth's hands sketched a vague gesture in the air. "Yeah . . . well . . . yeah, we were, but . . . well . . . Mom wasn't back with the Rover yet . . . and then Ryan and I had, well, sort of a fight, so . . . "

He broke off, grateful, as his cell phone rang. Immediately the hospital volunteer at the information desk looked over and reminded him, "You'll have to take that outside, young man."

Seth flipped the display open. "It's . . . um, it's Lindsay . . . Mom?"

"I can't . . ." Kirsten whispered. She looked terrified. "I can't tell her."

"Do you want me to . . .?" Sandy offered.

Seth squared his shoulders and stood up. "No. I will." He hurried out to the sidewalk in front of the emergency entrance before he could lose his courage.

"Seth, hi!" Lindsay exclaimed as soon as she heard his voice. Her own was light and bouncing with excitement. "Oh, I'm so glad you answered. I've been trying to reach Ryan, but he must have forgotten to turn his cell on again. Is he there? Can you put him on? I need to speak to him . . ."

"Lindsay, look, I'm really sorry . . . Ryan . . . You can't talk to him right now . . ."

"Why not? Is he enforcing his no-talking-on-the-phone-while-driving rule?" Lindsay teased. "Well, tell him to pull over. Or if he's already playing some silly game, make him stop for two minutes . . . He wanted me to call and let him know . . . Wait, why am I still talking to you? Give Ryan the phone. Please?"

Seth got as far as "I can't . . ." and stalled. He didn't want to hear what he had to say next.

"Seth?"

Lindsay waited.

"Seth?" she prompted more adamantly. And she waited. When she finally spoke again, Seth could hear her anxiety. "Seth, what's going on? Why can't I talk to Ryan? Has something happened? What aren't you telling me?"

Seth forced himself to answer. "Ryan was . . . he had an accident, Lindsay. We're at HOAG. The doctors are still with him . . ."

There was a strangled sound, and the noise of the phone being dropped and picked up again.

"Seth? This is Lindsay's mom. Tell me what you just told Lindsay, please."

Seth repeated the message, listened while Renee promised that she and Lindsay would be at the hospital as soon as possible. Then he snapped the phone closed, turned it off for good measure, and finally, just before he went back inside, threw it in the trash.

----------------------------------------------------

"All in all, I'd say he's a very lucky young man," Dr. Hejduk declared, leaning forward in his chair across from the three Cohens.

"Lucky?" Kirsten echoed incredulously. She twisted her rings, fingers working spasmodically, and Dr. Hejduk wrapped both of his hands around hers to still them.

"Lucky, yes," he insisted. "Ryan's injuries could have been much worse, Mrs. Cohen. We've already performed the ACL reconstruction." At their blank looks, he explained, "The ACL is the anterior cruciate ligament of the knee. Ryan's was damaged, so we replaced it with a graft from his own patellar tendon—that's part of the quadriceps muscles. We took a small section of bone along with the graft. That allows bone-to-bone healing, which is faster and stronger than a soft tissue graft."

Seth involuntarily rubbed his own knee and winced.

"Yes, it is rather painful," Dr. Hejduk conceded. "But it's not as serious as it sounds. Ryan will be on crutches for a while, and he will need to wear a knee brace, but with a good rehab program, he should make a full recovery."

"What else?" Sandy prompted when the doctor paused.

"Ryan suffered a clavicle fracture—that's a broken collarbone. He'll have to wear a sling for the next several weeks while it heals. Even at night. The only time it should come off is when Ryan showers. We'll give him medication to help ease the pain, and we'll want to watch for numbness in the arm, but there shouldn't be any complications . . ."

"But he was bleeding . . ." Kirsten recalled. Her eyes looked haunted at the memory, and she touched her own temple. "Here . . . he was bleeding so much."

Dr. Hejduk nodded. "Yes, I know, the cut by his eye. We closed it with eleven stitches. Right now his vision is blurred, but it should clear as he heals."

Kirsten took a choking breath. "Should clear? If it doesn't?"

"If it doesn't we'll have him see a specialist. Ryan does have a number of pretty ugly bruises from contact with the cement, but frankly, my only real concern is his head injury. Initially I didn't think his concussion was that serious, but there's some indication that it's at least grade 2, maybe grade 3."

"What does that mean?" Sandy asked. "I know what a concussion is, but grade 3 . . ."

"It's the most severe form," Dr. Hejduk explained. "Ryan experienced a major head trauma and he was unconscious for a relatively long period of time. He is awake now, and he's relatively alert and responsive, which is good. The dizziness and headache he's suffering are entirely normal. What worries me is that he's presenting symptoms of some short-term memory loss. Ryan doesn't seem to be recall much about the accident. He couldn't answer when I asked him questions about it."

Seth looked up sharply. "But he will, right? He'll remember what happened?"

"I expect so. But the symptoms can last for hours, even weeks. And we will need to watch him closely, because it's always hard to determine the full extent of a brain injury. Not that I anticipate any complications," Dr. Hejduk added hastily. "I don't."

He stood up and smiled at them. "Ryan should be settled in his room now. He's groggy, and he'll still be in some pain until the meds kick in, but if you want to see him--"

Kirsten and Sandy spoke simultaneously. "Yes. Please." "Absolutely." Then Sandy turned to Seth, who was uncharacteristically quiet. "Son? Don't you want to go with us to see Ryan?"

"Yeah . . . Of course. But I mean . . . Maybe we shouldn't all go . . . 'Cause I don't want to, you know, overwhelm him or anything. . ." Seth stammered. He hoped his parents couldn't sense his panic because there was no way to explain why he found the prospect of seeing Ryan equally wonderful and terrifying.

"Perhaps it would be better if you did take turns," Dr. Hejduk suggested. "And keep your visits short for now."

Kirsten reached over and gave Seth a quick kiss. "Your dad and I will go first, sweetie," she said. "You wait here in case Lindsay and her mother come, all right? We won't be long."

Seth watched as his mother stood up and braced herself briefly on the back of her chair. Then Kirsten leaned against Sandy's shoulder, her hand gripping his tightly as they turned to go.

"It's okay, Kirsten," Seth heard his father murmur. "Ryan's going to be okay . . ."

"I want so much to see him," Kirsten whispered brokenly. "But I don't know how I can face him, Sandy . . . After what I did to him . . ."

"Honey, he's not going to blame you. And you can't blame yourself . . ."

Seth really, really wanted somebody to say that to him.

-------------------------------------------------

"Ryan . . ." Kirsten called softly. "Sweetie, we're here." Despite herself, she could feel tears welling at the sight of him, but she brushed them away furiously as he opened his eyes.

Ryan squinted, trying to pull her into focus. "Kir . . . Kirsten. . ." he slurred. "There's . . . two of you. . . 's all right," he added when Kirsten's lips began to tremble. "Like seeing . . . two of you."

Sandy put a reassuring hand on Ryan's uninjured shoulder. "Hey, kid. The doctor said your vision would be blurry for a while. It's nothing to worry about, though. You're going to be fine."

"Not worried . . . See two of you too . . . 's good . . . Need two Sandys . . . Don't want either Kirsten to get . . . lonely."

Sandy laughed and Kirsten managed a tremulous smile as she stroked Ryan's cheek.

"I am so sorry, baby," she whispered. "You have to know I would never, ever hurt you . . . I didn't see you . . ."

Ryan blinked, confused. "'m right here."

"No, Ryan. . . I mean the accident . . . When I was pulling in . . . I just looked away for a second, I swear . . . "

Sandy shook his head. "Not now, sweetheart . . ."

"Don't 'member . . . accident," Ryan sighed, closing his eyes. His jaw muscles tightened momentarily before he looked up again. "Don't cry, Kirsten . . . Please don't . . . Sandy, need both of you . . . take care of her."

"Both . . .?"

Ryan gave a faint grin. He pointed at Sandy, then pointed again just to his left. "Sandy One and . . . Sandy Two . . . Job for . . . Super Sandy."

--------------------------------------------

With no one to tell him that he should sit down, Seth resumed pacing the perimeter of the waiting room. He was on his third lap when the automatic doors slid open and Lindsay hurtled into his arms, knocking him back a step before he regained his balance.

"Seth—" she gasped. "Where's Ryan? How is he?"

"Let him breathe, Lindsay," Renee urged, peeling her daughter's strangling arms from around Seth's neck.

"He's okay, Lindsay . . . Well, I mean, he's not okay yet, but really, he will be."

"Tell me."

Seth ticked off Ryan's injuries on his fingers, trying hard to make them all sound minor. "Concussion. Stitches in his forehead. Broken collarbone. Torn ligaments in his knee. Miscellaneous bumps and bruises . . . Lindsay, if you'd known Ryan last year, he like almost always had some of those. This is like a return to form for him. . ."

Lindsay flushed angrily. "It's not funny, Seth," she protested.

Seth gave up pretending. "Yeah, no, I know that. Believe me. But he is gonna be all right, Lindsay. Mom and Dad are with him now . . ."

"Let's sit down," Renee suggested. She guided all of them to chairs.

Seth gritted his teeth as he sat. He desperately wanted to keep moving, keep one step ahead of the thoughts that pursued him.

Lindsay pushed her hair back viciously, fixing Seth with eyes that still looked wide and glazed with fear.

"When you say 'all right', you mean like, just the way he was? No scars, no limp, no reminders? Just our Ryan? And how soon will he be all right?"

"God, Lindsay, I don't know," Seth answered helplessly. "I only know what the doctor said . . ."

"And you didn't ask? There are questions you should ask, Seth. Where's the doctor? I'll find out . . ."

Renee took her daughter's hand. "Lindsay, honey, relax. And don't snap at Seth. This isn't his fault, you know." She turned to Seth, but he abruptly bent to tie his shoe, avoiding her apologetic smile.

"I don't know anything, really," Lindsay muttered. "Seth, what happened? Were you and Ryan in a car accident or something? Because you're okay . . ."

Seth wanted to argue that he was anything but okay, but before he could answer Sandy returned to the waiting room. He immediately swept Seth up into a giant bear hug.

"Dad!" Seth's shock was muffled by his father's jacket.

"Ryan's all right then, Sandy?" Lindsay demanded. "Really? He's really all right?"

"I'd say so. He's making jokes about superheroes," Sandy reported, grinning. "Feel those muscles, Seth. For the record, I am—" Sandy released his son. He planted his feet, arms akimbo. "--Super Sandy! With double the powers of mere mortal men. Of course you already knew that."

Lindsay laughed in relief. Then, to her surprise, the giggles twisted in her throat and turned into sobs. "I don't know . . . why I'm crying . . ."

"Nerves, honey. It's natural," Renee cradled her daughter. "You'll feel better when you see Ryan."

Lindsay lifted a tear-stained face from her mother's arms. "Sandy, when can I--?"

"Kirsten is still there, but she's just waiting with him because she doesn't want Ryan to be alone. So if you want to go in with Seth, Lindsay . . ."

"No," Seth said hastily. "I mean . . . You can go first, Lindsay. Alone. You know, the girlfriend prerogative rule, all that. And you and Ryan . . . you'll want privacy. So . . . I can wait."

Sandy shot Seth a quizzical look. "Okay, then, Seth. If you're sure . . . Come on, Lindsay. I'll take you to Ryan's room."

"And I'll get coffee," Seth offered. "Right? Caffeine for everyone? This stuff . . ." he motioned to the half-empty Styrofoam cups on the side table. "Old, cold, worthless . . . So I'll just . . . get some fresh . . . and maybe some muffins, okay?"

Still babbling, studiously avoiding his father's appraising eyes, Seth escaped to the cafeteria.

--------------------------------------------------------

Kirsten crossed quietly to the door and enveloped Lindsay in a hug when she entered Ryan's room.

"Oh, honey, I'm so glad you're here . . . Where's Seth?"

"He's giving me some private time with Ryan." Lindsay registered Kirsten's haggard face, the way her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and her throat began to close again. "Is something wrong? Sandy said Ryan would be all right . . .?"

"He will be, sweetie. I'm just . . . Never mind . . . I'll explain it all later. Come on. Ryan's almost asleep, but I know he'll want to see you."

Lindsay braced herself, then followed Kirsten to the bed.

"Don't let all . . . this . . . scare you," Kirsten whispered, indicating the IV tubes, the bandages, sling and cast that marked the injuries on Ryan's left side. She slid Lindsay's hand gently onto Ryan's, then backed toward the door. "If Seth can be generous and give you private time, I guess I can too . . . Just keep this visit short, though, okay sweetie?"

Lindsay nodded and moved closer to Ryan as Kirsten left. She jumped a little when she heard his faint question.

"Kirsten . . . gone?"

Lindsay ran a finger down the side of his face. "Yes . . ."

"So you . . . can kiss me?" Ryan's eyes opened and one corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile.

Lindsay beamed at him. "Oh, yes . . ." She started to lean down, but Ryan's eyes widened and he raised his hand, pressing two fingers against her lips.

"Two," he said.

"Two?"

"Two kisses . . . One from . . . each of you."

Lindsay cocked her head, confused, but then she relaxed. Ryan was still smiling, almost mischievous, and his eyes had that intense, searching expression that made her believe he could see directly into her soul. "Two, Or maybe . . . three," she agreed, punctuating the words with kisses. "Or three hundred . . . Or . . . as many as you want."

---------------------------------------------------

Seth had been keeping his distance from his parents in the waiting room. He hoped that they were so engrossed in conversation with Renee that they wouldn't notice his pointless forays to vending machines, the way he rearranged the magazine stand half a dozen times, or the fact that he voluntarily cleaned up all the abandoned cups and napkins and crumpled newspapers. But he knew his behavior couldn't go unremarked forever.

"Seth . . . hey, Seth," Sandy called, patting the chair next to him. "Come here, son. I know how scary all this has been, but you need to relax. You're acting a little manic even by Seth Cohen standards. . . "

"Dad, manic? So not a flattering description of what I like to think of as my unique energy . . ."

"Is something wrong, son?"

Seth choked. "Wrong? Well, yeah, you think? Accident? Ambulance? Hospital? Doctors? Any of this ringing a bell here. . .?" He knew he was on the verge of hysteria and that his parents were staring at him with mounting concern, but Seth couldn't help himself.

When Lindsay came out of Ryan's room, he'd have no more excuses. He'd have to go in. And he had not thought of one single thing he could say, one thing he could do, that would begin to make any of this right.

His only hope was that the doctor had said Ryan didn't remember the accident. So maybe he wouldn't remember what had happened before the accident either. Seth knew it was selfish, but he wanted those memories lost for as long as possible. He needed time to determine how he could possibly explain what he'd done, and to plan what he could do to make Ryan forgive him.

Maybe, he thought, he should start by confessing to his parents. He wasn't kidding himself; Seth knew perfectly well that they'd be shocked and furious and deeply disappointed and then furious all over again. But they'd know, they'd have to know, that he had never intended to hurt Ryan. And eventually, maybe, they'd help Seth figure how to salvage their friendship.

If he ever could.

He turned to his mother, the words "This was all my fault" ready in his mouth. But before he could say them, his eyes filled with unexpected tears.

"Oh, sweetie. It's okay . . . it is," Kirsten crooned, rubbing his back. "We should have taken you in with us. You'll feel better once you see Ryan, honey. I did."

"Just don't expect to be Super Seth in there," Sandy teased. "Ryan knows who has the super powers in this family . . ."

"No . . . Mom, dad, that's not it . . . I . . ."

"Your turn, Seth," Lindsay called. She slid into the chair next to Kirsten, her smile suggesting that she knew a delicious secret. "But Ryan's fading fast. You better hurry before he's completely asleep."

Seth swiped the tears from his eyes. "Yeah. Right . . . Or . . . maybe I should just let him get some rest now. . . you know, see him later."

The dubious look returned to Sandy's face, the one he got when he was puzzling a particularly difficult case. "Go on, Seth," he urged. "I'm sure Ryan wants to see you."

"Yeah, right, okay," Seth agreed, with what he hoped was appropriate enthusiasm. "Just for a minute . . ."

-----------------------------------------------------

Ryan's eyes were closed when Seth entered his room, and for a moment he thought he'd been reprieved. He could just stand inside the door for a while, watch numbers flash on the monitors while Ryan slept, and then go out. Visit accomplished.

But Ryan's eyes fluttered open.

"Hey . . . hey, bro," Seth stammered. "I just wanted to, um, see for myself that you're all right . . . and yeah, I can see that . . . well, I mean considering the circumstances . . . but I know you need your rest, so I can, um, leave if you want to sleep."

Ryan continued to look at Seth, but he said nothing.

"So . . . how do you feel?" Ryan grimaced and Seth took a step back, shoving his shaking hands in his pockets. "Yeah, stupid question. You feel like shit . . . Anyway . . . so . . .you made Dad's day with that Super Sandy remark. He'll probably have it put on a t-shirt. And Mom . . . well, I know she still, like, blames herself--"

Seth stopped abruptly. He hadn't meant to mention the accident at all.

"Not her fault," Ryan said. His voice sounded hollow and distant.

"No . . . I mean, yeah . . . what's not her fault?"

"Accident."

Seth swallowed hard. "You remember that? 'Cause the doctor said . . ."

"Just . . . didn't want to . . . talk to doctor . . . Not his business."

"Okay, so . . . You remember . . . You remember everything?"

Ryan nodded.

Seth stepped forward resolutely. "Then you know it was all my fault. This . . . everything," he said. "God, Ryan, I am so, so sorry. Uber sorry . . . It totally makes me sick to think I did this to you . . . And I'll understand if you never forgive me for getting you hurt . . . I mean, I'll never forgive me . . ."

"You . . . didn't."

"I didn't . . . what?"

"Hurt . . . Accident was . . . my fault. Not Kirsten's . . . not yours."

Seth released a shuddering breath. "Then we're okay?" he asked, limp with relief. "Man, 'cause Ryan, this has been eating me up inside . . . I mean I know I was a total ass, and I deserve, like, all seven levels of hell, even a few extra, but I promise, I will make this up to you somehow . . . whatever you want . . ."

Seth reached down and covered Ryan's hand with his own. Immediately, Ryan pulled away, clenching his fist. His gaze flickered up, empty and cold, locking on Seth's puzzled face. Then Ryan's eyes closed and he turned his head.

"Get out, Seth . . ." The words were flat, far away.

"But, Ryan . . . what? You just said that you didn't blame me for the accident."

"Not . . . accident. Blame you for . . . not being my friend. Can't . . . forgive that. Ever. Get . . . out."

Seth opened his mouth, but there was nothing he could say. He waited for a moment, but Ryan's face was set in stone, and he didn't open his eyes again. Finally, silently, Seth left, closing the door softly behind him.

----------------------


	4. Collision Course Chapter 4

I own nothing except the arrangement of the words.

Collision Course Chapter 4 

"So, Cohen, I hear Ryan's coming home today, right?" Summer plopped herself down on the bench next to Seth, then waved her hand imperiously in his face when he didn't answer. "Cohen? Are you in there?"

Seth looked up vacantly from his unopened English lit textbook. "Huh? . . . Oh, hey, Summer."

"'Huh, oh, hey, Summer.'," she mimicked. "Don't overwhelm me with your enthusiasm for my company or anything . . . So, have you decided how to welcome Ryan back to Casa Cohen today? Because I have some ideas." Summer smiled and lifted her chin confidently. "And?" she prompted. "You want to hear them, right?"

"Summer, I don't think Ryan's going to want some big surprise party thing."

"Did I say big? Or surprise? Or even party? May I remind you that I am the girl who saved Chrismukkah? I have a sense of what's appropriate for the occasion, thank you very much."

Summer waited expectantly for Seth to agree, but he just kept doodling random shapes on the cover of his notebook. Frustrated, she snatched it out of his hands.

"Okay, Cohen, something's way wrong with this conversation. Listen to it. Who's doing all the talking? That would be me. And you being quiet . . . that, like, signals the end of civilization as we know it. So tell. Come on. Confession is good for the soul. Unburden yourself to Sister Summer. You know you want to. What's going on in Seth Cohen Land?"

Seth debated. Maybe he should tell her. None of his heart-to-heart talks with Captain Oats had helped at all. But his current quasi-friendship, hopefully-soon-to-be-renewed-relationship with Summer was still fragile, and he was afraid that the truth about what he had done to Ryan would shatter it.

Seth didn't think he could survive Summer hating him as much as he hated himself right now. So he just shrugged and answered vaguely, "Nothing. Just, you know, it's been really rough since the accident . . ."

He felt nauseous recalling just how rough it had been.

Seth had exhausted his ingenuity coming up with plausible reasons not to go whenever anyone suggested visiting Ryan. He claimed to have papers to write, projects to complete, or that he'd just stopped in to see Ryan on his way home from school. So far no one had questioned his excuses. Kirsten was still too obsessed with her own guilt to notice; Lindsay believed Seth was being sensitive ("for a change"), giving her time alone with Ryan; and Summer assumed that Seth thought it would be awkward to join her and Zack and/or Marissa.

Seth knew that Sandy had doubts, though.

"Come on, son," he'd urged yesterday. "Come with your mom and me. We're gonna bring take-out, have a family dinner together in Ryan's room . . . You can help me slip all the prohibited food past the nurses."

"Yeah, I would but, Dad, hospital smells? Chemicals and medicine and, just, body fluids? Really not so appetizing . . . You and Mom go. Grab some parental quality time . . . Anyway, I already saw Ryan this afternoon."

Seth wasn't lying--not literally anyway. He had seen Ryan that afternoon. He had gone to the hospital, just as he had every day since the accident, following the strict routine he'd established. First, he would linger for a while outside Ryan's open door, ducking around the corner if anyone appeared who might recognize him and ask questions. He would try to gauge Ryan's mood and condition by what he could see through the window: whether the TV was on, whether Ryan was sitting up, or eating, or reading, or sleeping, or seemed to be in pain. When he was confident that he had something to report at home, Seth would retreat to the cafeteria. There he'd buy a soda, drink it, and pleat the straw until the thin plastic cracked open. Somehow, the complete destruction of the straw became Seth's signal to leave.

So he had seen Ryan. Every day. He just hadn't actually visited him.

Except once, the day after the accident.

"_Hey," he'd said tentatively, as he entered the room. "How are you doing, bro?" _

_Ryan had been staring at the ceiling, but at the sound of Seth's voice, he turned to face the window. Other than that, he didn't give any indication that he'd even heard Seth come in. _

"_Yeah, that's about how I figured . . . Anyway, I brought you some things. Books, you know, and some CDs. Dad had some picked out, but hey. . . His taste? Highly suspect."_

_Seth paused, hoping for some response. When Ryan remained silent he licked his lips and tried again._

"_And, um, look, Ryan, I've been thinking . . . about the internship . . ."_

"_I am not talking to you about that," Ryan hissed._

"_No, but Ryan, just listen," Seth persisted, elated to have gotten any reaction at all. "See, I figured I could call the people in charge and explain about the accident and . . . well, they'd reschedule your interview."_

"_Deadline's past."_

"_But dude, they'll make an exception for you. There were extenuating circumstances . . ."_

_Ryan still refused to turn around, but Seth could see a muscle throb in his jaw. His words erupted in short, broken bursts. "Except the accident wasn't . . . extenuating circumstance . . . If you get . . . my interview rescheduled . . . your parents will . . . wonder why I didn't know about it . . . in the first place."_

"_Okay, yeah," Seth agreed slowly. "I can see that. So I guess then . . . we'll tell them. I mean, I will. I'll tell them the truth."_

"_No."_

"_But this is all on me, man. And shit, I'm willing . . ."_

_Ryan shook his head almost imperceptibly. "I don't want . . . your parents to know . . . you'd do that to me."_

"_Ryan, I'm telling you, I don't mind . . ."_

"_No? That's . . . difference between us, then . . . I do mind . . . But you know what?. . . Do what you want . . . You always do. Just . . . get out Seth."_

Seth had gone. And he had stayed away. Ryan never blew his cover. He didn't ask about Seth or mention that he hadn't been around for days. Seth knew he should be relieved, and he was. Still, the fact that Ryan maintained the fiction of their daily visits disappointed him somehow. It angered him too, and even to Seth himself that reaction made no sense at all.

But now Ryan would be coming home. Seth knew they couldn't avoid each other—hell, it made him sick to think that they'd try--but he didn't have a clue how they could coexist in the same house. Especially in front of Kirsten and Sandy, who still believed that they were friends.

Family, even.

The Cohen house was spacious, but it wasn't big enough to hold the lie he and Ryan had been telling, that nothing between them had changed.

"Cohen!" Summer swatted him hard with his notebook, jerking Seth out of his trance. "Okay, now you're just ignoring me. Which is, like, incredibly rude. Have you even heard one word I've said?"

"Ow, Summer! You know, there are ways to get people's attention without maiming them."

"People, maybe," Summer conceded. "You? Not so much. Cohen, something is going on with you, and you might as well just tell me. Because you know I will find out."

"Yeah? Well, happy sleuthing," Seth muttered.

Summer sighed. "Fine, go ahead and be all Cohen-y. I'll just go plan Ryan's welcome home with Lindsay and Marissa. You know, people who actually seem happy that he's getting out of the hospital today."

She stopped suddenly and narrowed her eyes, fixing Seth with a measuring stare.

"What?" he protested. "I'm happy. I'm just, you know, worried about his rehabilitation. 'Cause Ryan on crutches? Accepting help from people? Won't be pretty."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah. That's it."

"Hmm." Summer pursed her lips, considering. Then she gave Seth a farewell swat, dropped his notebook into his lap and left.

Seth watched her go. He didn't think he could mark this encounter as a positive step on his "Seth-and-Summer-get-back-together" checklist.

-----------------------------------------------

Ryan sat on the edge of his hospital bed, watching Kirsten pack his few belongings into a floral tapestry overnight bag.

"I can do that, you know," he reminded her. "And Kirsten, that bag? It's not exactly me."

Kirsten looked at the small suitcase. "No, I guess not," she agreed, smiling wryly. "Don't worry. I'll carry it when we go out and everyone will assume that it's mine."

"It is yours."

"Yes, I guess it is. Oh, Ryan, I'm sorry," Kirsten exclaimed, dropping onto the bed next to him. "I just grabbed the first thing I saw. But I should have brought your backpack or, well, something more appropriate."

"Kirsten, it really doesn't matter."

"It does matter," she argued. "All of this matters, Ryan." Her gesture took in everything—the wheelchair waiting by the door, the bandage that still covered much of Ryan's forehead, the brace on his leg. "I am just . . . I am so, so sorry." She reached for his hand, blinking back the tears that had spilled over regularly all week.

"Kirsten, don't, Don't cry," Ryan pleaded. He began to pant slightly, as he did whenever he got upset. "I've told you, none of this was your fault. It wasn't . . . You didn't run into me. I ran into you. I wasn't looking where I was going, and I was riding too fast. I'm the one who was . . . reckless and . . . out of control."

Kirsten continued to clutch his hand and take quavering breaths.

Ryan lightened his tone, tried to make it playful and teasing. "You should be mad at me for putting such a huge dent in the Rover. I'll pay for the repairs, promise . . . but you may have to give me ten or fifteen years." When Kirsten didn't smile, Ryan ducked his head, adding in a whisper, "I can't . . . stand it when you cry."

Kirsten bit her lip, nodding. "I'm sorry. I told myself I wouldn't—"

"And you told me that you wouldn't," Sandy declared as he walked in. "We're going to hold her to that, right Ryan? This is now officially Kirsten Cohen Doesn't Cry Day."

"Yeah . . . Could we make that Doesn't Cry Month?" Ryan suggested.

Sandy grinned at him. "Done and done. So, I have officially signed all the official papers I need to sign in order to spring you from this place."

"Sounds like leaving juvie," Ryan observed.

"Yeah, it does kinda, doesn't it? . . . What do you say, kid? Ready to come home?"

"God," Ryan sighed. "I've been ready forever."

That wasn't entirely true. Ryan was eager to get out of the hospital, but he wasn't sure what going home really meant anymore. Seth would be there, and Ryan knew that they wouldn't be able to maintain the safe distance they'd established, not without raising questions neither one of them wanted to answer. So they'd just have to pretend, preserve a façade of normalcy.

Ryan knew that kind of tension and deceit all too well. It had inhabited his family's apartment in Fresno, then his mother's place in Chino, and last summer, it had been right there with him in Theresa's house.

None of those places had been home.

Nowhere filled with lies could ever be home.

Not even the Cohen's.

--------------------------------------------------

Sandy glanced toward Kirsten, who was sitting in the backseat behind Ryan. As he suspected, her hands were knotted tightly, and her face was drawn. Since the accident, she couldn't ride comfortably in a car, and she hadn't driven at all. When Sandy mentioned the fact, she had given a brittle smile, claiming that she just liked to be chauffeured, but her frequent nightmares told Sandy the real reason.

Kirsten caught his eye in the rearview mirror and blanched. "Watch the road, Sandy," she hissed.

"Kirsten? Are you all right?" Ryan asked.

Kirsten forced a small laugh. "I'm fine, sweetie."

"Don't let her fool you, kid," Sandy interjected. "Kirsten is your classic backseat driver. That's why we never let her sit back there."

He smiled reassuringly at Ryan, who still looked worried, then pressed down a little harder on the accelerator. They were still going under the speed limit—he knew Kirsten wouldn't tolerate even one mile per hour too fast—but he really wanted to get them all home as soon as possible.

"Now, see, if Seth were here, he'd keep her quiet, just because she wouldn't be able to get a word in edgewise," Sandy noted. "But he decided to stay home and coordinate the welcoming ceremony."

"The . . . welcoming ceremony?" Ryan repeated, alarmed.

Sandy grinned. "Don't worry, kid. He's grounded for life if there are fireworks."

-------------------------------------------------

"Now, Ryan," Kirsten said anxiously as they pulled into the development. "I know we've had this conversation before, and I know you'd rather stay in the pool house than move inside, but this is just temporary. Just until you're back on your feet . . ."

"Both feet," Sandy interjected. "Not just one foot and a crutch."

"So we've fixed up the guestroom on the first floor for you. Seth has been in there all week getting it ready. I think he's moved down his entire comic book collection . . ."

"God, I hope not," Ryan muttered.

"So . . . here we are," Sandy announced. "And there's . . . pretty much everybody."

Ryan stared, startled, at the group waiting in front of the door: Seth, Lindsay, her mother, Marissa, Alex, Summer, Zack, Rosa, Julie, Caleb, Luke . . .

"Luke?" Ryan asked.

"He flew down for the weekend," Sandy explained, parking the car. "He wanted to see you after he heard what happened."

"And what are Julie and Caleb doing here? They don't even like me . . .Isn't that like the one thing they have in common?"

"Ryan!" Kirsten scolded.

He raised his eyebrows and smirked at her.

"All right, smartass, let's get you out of the car."

Seth, who had just opened the passenger side door, clutched his heart and staggered backward. "Did my mom just say 'smartass?' Dude, what have you done with the Kirsten? And, you know, by the way, welcome home."

Ryan had automatically begun to smile at Seth's theatrics, but his expression froze when Seth reached for his hand and then involuntarily pulled away.

"Yeah, thanks," he said tightly.

"So, do you need . . . any help getting out?"

"He needs this," Sandy said, bringing Ryan's crutch from the trunk. "Here we go, kid . . ."

He leaned the crutch against the side of the car and reached down to help Ryan maneuver his leg in its stiff, bulky brace. Ryan draped an arm around Sandy's shoulder and pulled himself awkwardly to his feet. He kept his head down until the crutch was safely under his arm.

"Remember what the doctor told you now," Kirsten warned, climbing out of the back seat. "Don't put any pressure on your left side. . ."

"Yeah, I know," Ryan assured her. "You can let go now, Sandy. I've got it."

Sandy stepped away and Lindsay raced forward, ready to fling herself into Ryan's arms. At the last moment she stopped and eased in for a gentle hug instead.

"I didn't want to pull you off balance," she murmured into his neck. "Oh, Ryan, it is so, so good to see you back where you belong."

Ryan wondered at those words. "Back where you belong." He repeated them to himself like a mantra as he made his way into the house. There was a chorus of greetings, variations on "Welcome back, Ryan!" "Good to have you home," and, from Luke, "Hey, Chino! Looks like the Rover won that round, man. You should take on something your own size, like, say, a Civic."

Ryan flashed his trademark glare. "Shut up, Luke," he growled, grinning. "I can still take you," He paused, swaying slightly inside the door, adding half under his breath, "I feel like some lame one-man parade here."

"Ah! Lame. Yes, we all get it. Ladies and gentlemen, the Atwood humor is in the house," Seth proclaimed.

He looked nervously at Ryan, but there were too many people between them, all talking at once, for him to tell if Ryan had reacted at all.

"Mr. and Mrs. Cohen, dinner is ready on the patio," Rosa announced through the din.

"Dinner?" Ryan demurred. "I don't think . . ."

"Not for you," Summer explained. "I mean, you're allowed to eat and all . . ."

"Gee, thanks."

Summer ignored his interruption, continuing, "But this is my brilliant plan. We're going to have dinner outside while you get settled. Then when you're ready, we can come in to visit, just two or three of us at a time. That way you'll have the pleasure of our company but we won't, like, overwhelm you or anything." She looked at Kirsten pointedly.

Kirsten smiled. "Thank you, Summer. It's a very . . . sensitive plan."

"See, Cohen? I told you I could do sensitive. Okay, everybody . . . let's go, let's go, let's go," Summer ordered, flouncing outside. "Luke, if you steal that crutch, I swear I will beat you with it . . ."

-----------------------------------------------------

For the second time that day, Ryan found himself sitting on the edge of a bed while Kirsten hovered around him. This time he was in the first floor guestroom. With its solid walls, windows that offered no view of the water, and unfamiliar furniture, it seemed worlds removed from the pool house. Ryan looked around, wincing a little. Everything ached. Even worse, he felt displaced, and unnervingly like a stranger—the same way, he realized, that he had felt on his first night in Newport.

"Now you're sure you're all right?" Kirsten asked. "You'll be comfortable here?"

"I'll be fine."

"And you have everything you need?" She scanned the room, sure that something vital was missing.

Ryan gritted his teeth as he pushed himself back on the bed. Then he made himself smile for Kirsten's benefit. "Yeah, everything . . . Plus a few things I'm pretty sure I don't need right now." He nodded toward a corner of the room, where a new bike was propped against the wall.

Kirsten shook her head ruefully. "I thought we should let you choose one yourself once your leg heals, but Sandy wanted to have a bike waiting for you when you got home. . . Why he brought it in here, I have no idea."

"Incentive," Sandy explained. He set down the dinner plate he was carrying on a small table and slid it next to Ryan. "Seeing it will remind you why you need to do all those painful rehabilitation exercises."

"They're not going to be that painful, are they?" Kirsten's voice was worried. "Are they, Sandy?"

"If you make her cry again, you're going to be the one who needs rehabilitation," Ryan warned. He lifted his crutch. "Remember, I'm armed now."

Sandy grinned. "Yeah, but I've got two good legs." He put his arms around Kirsten. "And did I say painful, honey? I meant relaxing . . . A few stretches, some massage, a whirlpool. Maybe even some yogalaties. . . Ryan, you need to eat your dinner, because the natives out there are getting restless. If you keep them waiting too long, I may be forced to entertain them with a few songs."

"Well, if anybody needs to leave, like maybe Caleb and Julie . . ." Ryan suggested hopefully. Kirsten raised her eyebrows at him and he shrugged. "Just trying to be polite."

"Try harder. Nobody's leaving until they get to say good night," Kirsten declared. "Now, did you want any company while you eat?"

"Lindsay," Sandy and Ryan said simultaneously.

Ryan glared at him and Sandy shrugged, laughing. "Hey, lucky guess." He reached down and squeezed Ryan's good shoulder. "We'll send her in. Welcome home, kid."

"Home," Ryan tried out the word, as the door closed behind them.

It sounded right, but it still felt very wrong.

----------------------------------------------------

Lindsay stopped in the kitchen to wash her hands before going to Ryan's room. She jumped a little when Seth rushed in behind her and caught her elbow.

"Hey, Lindsay . . . hey, what's up?"

"What's up?" she repeated incredulously. "You grabbed me, Seth."

"Yeah, not so much a grab as a friendly nephew-aunt greeting . . . I think Maori tribes use it . . . or maybe Inuit."

"Okay, Seth, you're being even weirder than usual, if that's possible. Did you want something?"

Seth shoved his hands in his pockets, aiming for nonchalance. "Not really. Well, maybe. I just thought . . . could you give me a few minutes with Ryan before you go in?"

Lindsay narrowed her eyes and studied his face; sometimes it seemed to Seth like Lindsay studied everything.

"Why?"

"We just need to talk about, um, house rules . . . You know, he was in the pool house before, now he's here, a whole new environment . . . a whole new infrastructure and policy system . . ."

Lindsay sighed. "Weirder and weirder . . . Okay, Seth, have your male summit meeting or whatever. You get ten minutes. But then I'm coming in. I've been waiting all day to talk to Ryan." Her whole face seemed to glow suddenly. "I've got some news to tell him" she confided. "About . . . well, just something."

"That summer internship?" When she stared in surprise, Seth explained, "Your mom . . . my mom . . .The maternal grapevine. . . So, what? Did you get it?"

"I got it!" Lindsay confirmed. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. "But I wanted Ryan to be the first to know. Don't tell him, okay, Seth?"

"Yeah . . . no." Until that moment, Seth hadn't realized that he'd secretly been hoping Lindsay wouldn't get the internship. It wouldn't change what he had done, but maybe if Lindsay lost the award, Ryan wouldn't mind missing his own chance. Or at least, not as much. "I won't tell him," Seth said flatly.

"I just wish . . ." The excitement drained from Lindsay's voice and she sounded uncertain, even shy. "I wish Ryan had gotten one too. God, maybe I shouldn't tell him. What do you think, Seth?"

Seth busied himself tying his shoe as he answered. "Yeah. You should tell him. He'll be happy for you."

Lindsay's face lit up again. "He will, won't he?" She gave Seth a quick kiss on the cheek. "Okay. Ten minutes and counting . . ."

--------------------------------------------------------------

Seth raised his hands defensively as soon as he stepped into Ryan's room.

"Okay, I know . . . not the person you expected to see right now. Or wanted to see now . . . Or maybe like ever . . ."

Ryan pushed away his dinner tray and tried to sit straighter on the bed. His head had already been pounding before Seth entered; now an arrow of pain flashed behind his eyes.

"Lindsay was supposed to be coming . . ."

"Yeah, I sort of waylaid her . . . I thought we needed a few minutes . . ."

"We don't . . . Why did you bring these here, Seth?" Ryan's gesture indicated the neat stacks of Seth's comic books. "They're yours."

"I thought you could catch up on back issues. You know, while you recuperate . . . You could read them, or, I don't care, rip them up. Make a giant paper mache voodoo doll out of them. Whatever you want."

"Get them out of here. And you get out of here too."

"Fine, I'll take them, but . . . Look, Ryan, obviously you don't want to, I don't want to . . . but we have to talk here. . ."

Ryan's expression darkened. "I don't have to do anything."

"Okay, I know, I get that . . . But dude, now that you're home, it's going to take the 'rents maybe two minutes to pick up on the fact that . . ."

"We're not friends anymore."

Seth swallowed. "I was going to say that you're mad at me." He picked up a magazine from the nightstand, rolling it convulsively between his hands, and waited.

Ryan pulled the pillow from behind his head, punched it, then clutched it on his lap. His mouth moved, as though he wanted to say something, but he remained silent.

"So . . . that's it?" Seth demanded. "We're just not friends anymore? Period?"

Ryan shrugged.

"Man," Seth protested desperately, "I've apologized like a million times. Well, maybe not out loud, but in my head I have . . . What do you want me to do, Ryan? It's not like there's a break in the space-time continuum and I can go back and undo everything . . ."

"Could you just . . .?"

Seth held his breath.

"Take this food out of here? . . . Send Lindsay in . . .?"

Seth deflated. "Yeah, sure . . ."

He took the plate and turned to go, defeated. But at the door he suddenly spun around.

"No . . . Ryan, if this is how you want to leave things between us . . ."

"None of this is . . . what I wanted," Ryan muttered under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing . . ." Seth repeated. "Great . . . Nothing . . .But the 'rents aren't going to buy that, you know. Dad already suspects that something is wrong."

Ryan's forehead furrowed and he tried to push back the pain.

"Just say . . . we had a stupid argument," he suggested weakly.

"Give them a little credit. They're gonna know it's more than that . . . I'll tell them the truth, Ryan."

"No!"

"Why not?" Seth demanded, baffled. He played with the rim of the plate that he was still holding. "You're not making sense, dude. They'll be furious with me. Not you. And if we're not . . . friends . . . anymore, why would you care whether or not I get in trouble?"

Ryan clenched his right fist and wrapped his left hand around it, squeezing hard.

"You don't get it."

"No, I don't. So . . . explain it to me, man."

Ryan closed his eyes. "When your dad . . . found my mom . . ." he began, so softly that Seth had to move closer to hear, "When I asked her why she left me, she told me . . . when I got arrested, she knew she had failed. What I did was her fault." Ryan opened his eyes again, meeting Seth's stricken gaze. "I don't want Kirsten and Sandy to feel that way . . . like they failed."

"So this is about protecting my parents. Not me," Seth concluded slowly.

Ryan nodded.

Seth picked up Ryan's plate and moved toward the door. "Okay, so . . . yeah, fine, we won't tell them. We'll just say we had a . . . stupid argument, that's all." He turned to go, but he couldn't make himself leave.

Seth's stomach was churning, and he realized suddenly that it wasn't just shame or guilt or remorse that he was feeling. They had become familiar emotions. This one was different. It was rage, violent and corrosive. And he didn't understand it, but he couldn't contain it.

He spun back around.

"No. You know what? This is bullshit, Ryan."

"What?"

"Bullshit," Seth repeated.

Ryan's jaw tightened. "I'm trying to make this easier for everyone."

"Yeah, that's Ryan Atwood . . . making things easier . . . always thinking of others." Seth clapped his hands. "Well, bravo," he said sardonically. "A, dude, really. You have got this martyr act down. What's next? Sainthood maybe?"

"Seth . . ."

Ryan's voice was low and dangerous, but Seth ignored it.

"You think what I did was the same as you stealing a car? Hey, what fucking law did I break exactly, buddy? . . . You think I'm gonna make my parents feel like failures, just because you did? . . . I made a mistake, Ryan. That's it. That's all. It was just—a—really—stupid—mistake."

Seth was shaking with fury. He looked down at the dinner plate still clenched in his hands. Then he heaved it across the room.

-------------------------------------

Summer led everyone in from the patio to the living room.

"Now, as soon as Seth and Ryan stop talking—or you know, Seth stops talking—Lindsay will go in—"

"No. I'll go last," Lindsay offered. "I mean, I'd rather go last . . . if nobody minds."

Summer batted her eyelashes. "Oh no, we understand. Okay, everybody, Lindsay is last, so she can tuck Ryan in for the night."

Lindsay blushed and tried to hide behind her hair.

"Now," Summer continued, "we just need to schedule everyone else in groups of no more than three. These are five-minute visits, everybody—Kirsten's orders. I have a timer and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Yeah, but do you know how to use it?" Luke asked.

"You'd better be careful, Luke," Marissa warned. "Summer has not mellowed while you've been in Portland."

"What she said." Summer smiled sweetly, smacking Luke with the TV remote. "Now, anybody exceeding their allotted time will . . . "

She stopped abruptly.

There was the sound of glass shattering.

It was coming from Ryan's room.

Kirsten stood up immediately. "Seth must have dropped something. I'll just go check . . . "

But then they heard the shouting and something heavy falling to the floor.

---------------------------------------------

Ryan's crutch lay out of his reach, where it had crashed as he tried to get out of bed.

"Admit it, Ryan!" Seth cried. "Admit it. It's not that what I did was so unforgivable . . . Man, you forgive everybody. You just don't want to forgive me, that's all . . . And I confessed. Remember that? Fuck, Ryan, if you hadn't stormed off, we could have made this right. We could have called . . . claimed car trouble or, or, something . . . and gotten your interview postponed."

"Yeah, more lying . . . always the way to put things right."

"So? Who's lying now? I was willing to tell the truth after the accident. You're the one . . ."

"Because I didn't want your parents to know . . . "

"Right, you'd rather just be all noble and suffer. And for what, man? . . . It was just a fucking summer internship . . ."

"It wasn't just an internship! You think stealing a car was worse than what you did?" Ryan demanded furiously, his control shattered. "Fuck that, man. I had a chance for something . . . something good that I actually earned . . . and you stole it from me, Seth."

Seth tried to interrupt, but Ryan cut him off. "You don't understand anything. I wanted this, all right! Shit, Seth, I needed it . . . to get a scholarship . . . for college . . ."

"But how the hell was I supposed to know that? Did you tell me, dude? Oh, wait . . . No, no, you didn't. Because you never tell me anything."

"How would you know?" Ryan hissed. "When the fuck do you ever listen?"

"Oh, right," Seth scoffed. "So we're back to that. All those little digs you've been making lately . . . Self-obsessed Seth. Selfish Seth . . . Always talking about himself. Always thinking about himself . . ."

"Well you sure as hell weren't thinking about me when you erased my message."

"I wasn't thinking at all! . . . I just--did it. . . I don't even know why," Seth argued, repeating desperately, "But I didn't know you wanted the fucking interview, man—"

"Oh my God."

Lindsay's voice was barely a whisper, but it silenced Seth.

He spun around.

They were all there, outside the door, listening, aghast. Kirsten's hand was pressed against her mouth, as though she was about to be sick. Sandy was shaking his head, eyes searching Seth's face as if he was trying to find the son he knew, and couldn't.

They had heard everything.


	5. Chapter 5A

Same disclaimer. Don't own, don't rent, don't lease anything O.C. Fun to borrow the boys though.   
Chapter 5A 

Sandy stood at his bedroom window, forehead pressed against the glass, eyes fixed on nothing at all. He heard Kirsten come in and sink heavily on the bed, but he didn't turn around.

"Everyone gone?" he asked.

Kirsten pulled off her shoes and kicked them aimlessly into a corner. "I practically had to push my father and Julie out the door. Dad wanted to—how did he put it?—talk some sense into his grandson. And Julie . . . Oh, she acted just so sweet and smug and 'concerned' that I wanted to smack her. She couldn't wait to give me all kinds of advice about 'dealing with the boys'. Imagine. Her, with her track record . . . " Kirsten sighed. "God, Sandy."

"I know . . . So, Ryan okay?"

"Sick, I think. He couldn't keep anything down, and I know his head hurts. But he wouldn't let me stay, and he wouldn't talk to me. What about Seth?"

"Refused to unlock his door. I decided it was better to let him calm down on his own. Right now I'm not sure what to say to him anyway."

"Sandy, you don't think he would . . .?"

"Run away again?" Sandy shrugged helplessly and went to sit beside Kirsten. She dropped her head on his shoulder and threaded her fingers through his. "I don't think so, but hell, honey, I don't know."

"If he does . . ." Kirsten couldn't finish the thought.

"If he does, we'll have the police haul his sorry ass back if we have to. And then we'll ground him until he's thirty."

"That might not be a bad idea anyway."

Sandy lifted their clasped hands and kissed her palm. "It would be a start," he agreed.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Kirsten whispered, "What are we going to do, Sandy? How do we fix this?"

"I'm not sure we can, sweetheart. I think that may be up to Seth and Ryan."

"But what Seth did . . . the way they spoke to each other . . ." Kirsten shuddered. "They've always been so close, and now . . ."

"Now they'll have to figure out if their friendship is worth salvaging."

"Of course it is!" Kirsten said sharply. She pulled away from Sandy, facing him. "And Sandy, it's not just their friendship at stake. It's our whole family. We have to help them work this out. We can't just do nothing."

Sandy leaned his forehead against Kirsten's, considering. Then he sat up straight. "You may be right," he admitted. "Our doing nothing in the past may be one of the problems here." Kirsten narrowed her eyes, baffled, and he explained, "Last fall, when the boys came back home . . . We just picked up as though nothing had happened. A lot went on last summer, honey . . . and we ignored it."

"I know. But I was just so glad to have them both home . . ."

"So was I, but let's look at the facts." Sandy stood up. He was in lawyer-mode now, logical and dispassionate.

"Seth ran away," he began. "Basically, he threw a three month temper tantrum."

Kirsten started to protest, but Sandy waved her quiet. "I know, I know . . . You were willing to take a hard line then, and I wasn't. Seth was hurt and angry, and I really did think that being away from here might help him work though his issues. Maybe take some responsibility for his life . . . But he never did that. He just hid out at Luke's and sulked. And honey, the way he spoke to us, the way he just disregarded our feelings . . . And we let him get away with it."

"He came home Sandy," Kirsten said. Her tone was pleading. "He came back to us. I didn't want to alienate him all over again."

"But there were no consequences for his actions, honey. None. We let Seth think that we didn't mind his behavior, that the way he had treated us was acceptable." Sandy had been pacing, but he stopped, gripping the back of the armchair. "Kirsten, I love our son, and I think he's an amazing kid. Seth's funny, he's smart, he's got this terrific ability to see who people really are inside. But he's also got a major sense of entitlement. And we gave it to him."

Kirsten shifted uncomfortably, remembering all the transgressions that they'd ignored over the years—especially the past year: the damage to the Rover, the unauthorized trip to Tijuana, Seth's flippant refusal to help out around the house, the cavalier way he had juggled Anna's and Summer's feelings, his expectation that everyone would always fall in with his plans.

"I was just so relieved to see him come out of his shell," Kirsten murmured.

"Hey, I know. I was relieved just to see him come out of his room. Seth had been isolated for so long. He needed to push the boundaries a little bit. But honey . . . there should have been boundaries."

"I suppose we did . . . spoil him. A little."

"We spoiled him a lot. Oh sure, we weren't indulgent like those other Newpsie parents; we didn't buy him a car or give him an unlimited credit card. But Kirsten, we've been letting Seth pretty much run this household. No wonder he thinks he can run Ryan's life too."

Sandy moved to the front of the armchair and slumped into it. "And Ryan," he mused. "We didn't do much better by him."

"What are you talking about, Sandy? We made Ryan part of our family. We gave him a real home, maybe for the first time in his life. "

"Yeah," Sandy said flatly. "We did. And then we let him leave. Theresa gets pregnant, Ryan decides to shoulder the responsibility all by himself, and we basically say 'Fine. Do it.'"

"We kept in touch . . . We tried to help out . . ."

"We sent them baby clothes, Kirsten. He's seventeen, and we let him work double shifts. And we didn't do a thing when Ryan told us that he was going to drop out of school and just try for a GED . . . With his potential . . . We should have insisted that he at least graduate . . ."

Sandy yanked off his tie and flung it on the dresser.

"Fine parents we are," he muttered.

"I know, but he was so determined . . . And with Ryan . . . I always believed if we pushed him too hard he might just disappear out of our lives completely . . . And Sandy," Kirsten urged, "think about what he's been like since he came back. He smiles more, he talks more . . ."

Sandy reached back and massaged his neck, grimacing. "Yeah, Ryan talks," he conceded. "But sweetheart, has he really been saying anything? Has he even mentioned last summer, or how he feels about losing the baby? Because if he did, I gotta say, I missed it. And the breakup with Marissa, that had to have some effect on him, after all they went through, but you'd never know it from anything he's said to us."

"You're right," Kirsten said slowly. Unconsciously she mimicked Sandy, rubbing her own neck. "His school counselor had to call to get us involved in his college plans, Seth is the one who lets us know that Ryan's taking AP courses . . ."

"Honey, let's face it. The kid may be saying more words, but he's as silent about what matters this year as he was last year. It's like Ryan's skimming over the surface here, not wanting to make any more waves . . ."

"He thinks we only welcomed him back because he brought Seth home with him," Kirsten murmured.

"What?"

"He said that. Actually, I don't think he meant to; it just slipped out. We were talking about the internship . . ."

"Wait. Honey, you knew about that?"

Kirsten nodded. "Only because Renee told me that Lindsay was a finalist. I suggested that Ryan might want to go along with her. He thought . . . it was when he thought that he hadn't gotten an interview. Oh, Sandy, he was so disappointed. . . And then he said . . . one reason he wanted the internship so badly was because he wanted us to be proud of him—to be glad that he'd come back, and not just that he'd brought Seth home."

"So . . . great," Sandy groaned. "Just . . . great. Ryan's still not secure here and is still hiding things from us, Seth thinks the world revolves around him, and tries to get his way with childish, hurtful stunts . . . What have we been doing, sweetheart? Because it seems like we've lost touch with our sons altogether."

Kirsten's lips trembled. "I thought loving them would be enough. It's not, is it?"

Sandy shook his head.

"So what do we do now?"

Sandy pulled her to her feet, nestling her head against his heart. "Hey, we've recognized the problem. That's the first step, right? So now we try to get some sleep. We're going to need our energy. Tomorrow, the Cohen laissez-faire system of parenting comes to an end."

----------------------------------------------------

Kirsten was headed for Seth's room when the doorbell rang insistently. She detoured downstairs to answer it, sighing audibly when she saw her visitors.

"Dad. Julie. We are really not in the mood for company this morning."

"Well, we're hardly company, Kiki," Caleb objected. He moved to step inside, but Kirsten held her ground, hand on the door, blocking the entrance. "You ushered us out of here so quickly last night that I thought we'd better check on things."

"In person. At this hour. You couldn't have phoned?"

"We're just so worried about all of you," Julie purred. "First the accident, and now this horrible argument between Ryan and Seth in front of everybody . . . I don't know how you're coping." Her lips curled in a patronizing smile. "Kirsten, you poor dear, you look just exhausted."

"Thanks," Kirsten said dryly. "That's exactly the look I was going for. Dad, why don't I just call you later, after we have breakfast and get a few things settled here? I'm sure you and Julie have important things of your own to do—clothes to buy, checks to sign, ordinances to sidestep . . ."

"I've cleared my schedule this morning." Caleb announced. "I thought you might like me to have that talk with my grandson."

"Sandy and I are perfectly capable of . . ."

Caleb ignored her objection. "Running away last summer, stealing my car, getting drunk at a club—I heard about that--and now all this thoughtless, irresponsible behavior . . . Someone needs to lay down the law to that young man. And I know you and Sanford have never been comfortable handling discipline."

"So you're offering to do it? I really don't think you're in any position to give Sandy and me parenting lessons, Dad. And I'm not at all sure we want Seth practicing your values," Kirsten snapped. "Does the name 'Lindsay' mean anything to you? Or Hailey, for that matter?"

"Now, Kiki," Julie admonished, "there's no need to take out your frustrations on your father. Caleb and I are just here to help."

"Do not call me 'Kiki,'" Kirsten warned. "And since you have one daughter stowed away at boarding school and another who can't stand to be in the same room with you, I think I'll pass on your advice too."

"Well!" Julie huffed. "Caleb, I did not come here to be insulted. I know Kirsten is upset, and she's your daughter, but we do not have to stand for this."

"Then by all means, don't." Kirsten lifted her chin and closed the door in their faces, letting it slam just a little. Then she turned on her heel, flushed with simultaneous fury and triumph. She glanced up in surprise when she heard applause from the top of the stairs.

"Brava, Kirsten!" Sandy clapped, then put two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. "I wish I'd had the video camera. You took down the Gruesome Twosome. I am really impressed, honey."

"I don't know if I took them down so much as kicked them out."

"Hey, it still works for me. You got them out of the house. And I imagine Julie will think twice before she tries her Lady of the Manor act again with you . . . So, who's next on the Kirsten straight talk list?"

"Seth," Kirsten replied. She looked a little grim. "And you can deal with Ryan. Breakfast—all four of us—in twenty minutes. I want both boys at the table. No excuses"

"Got it, Sarge. I'll do good cop, you do bad cop. I'll go high, you go low."

"Sandy, you do realize that I have no idea what you're talking about, right?"

Sandy nodded, grinning. He came downstairs and Kirsten started back up. As they passed Sandy caught Kirsten's hand, twirled her close to him and kissed her deeply.

"I do love a forceful woman," he murmured into her mouth. "Now, go get 'em, tiger."

---------------------------------------------------

As soon as he opened the door, Sandy could tell that Ryan had spent a sleepless night. He was haggard and pale, with lines of pain etched around his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said as soon as Sandy walked in the room. "For what happened last night. I'm really sorry."

"You want to make it up to me?"

Ryan nodded, a little surprised.

"Okay. Then here's the first thing you can do . . . Stop apologizing, Ryan. Everything bad that happens in this house is not your fault. And as far as I can tell, you're pretty much the injured party here."

A shadow of a smile flitted across Ryan's face as he glanced down at the brace on his leg.

Sandy rolled his eyes ruefully. "Right. Injured party . . . Didn't even intend that one. So . . . how are you feeling this morning, kid?"

"Fine," Ryan claimed.

"Would that be 'fine' as in 'I feel like hell'? Or 'fine' as in 'Even worse than I look'?"

"Maybe . . . the first one?"

"Good. Because you look like death warmed over."

Ryan made a move to get out of bed, but Sandy motioned for him to stay where he was.

"Relax," he urged, pulling a chair over to sit by Ryan. "Breakfast won't be ready for twenty minutes, so I thought you and I could have a talk first."

Ryan peered at Sandy from under his bangs, his expression wary. "I'm not very hungry . . . and I don't feel much like talking right now, Sandy."

"Food. Words. They're non-negotiable." Sandy's tone managed to be both playful and unmistakably firm. "Kirsten said you couldn't keep your dinner down last night, so unless you want to make a return visit to the hospital, you are gonna eat. And as of this morning, we have a 'no secrets' rule in this house, so you are gonna talk. Now, do you want to tell me exactly what happened between you and Seth?"

Ryan picked at the edges of his brace. "Not really."

"Okay, let me rephrase the question. Are you going to tell me what happened between you and Seth now? Or are you going to wait until I badger you relentlessly for the next ten minutes? Because you are going to tell me."

"Why? You heard. You know already."

Sandy put his hand over Ryan's, pulling it gently away from his brace. "Leave that alone . . . Yeah, I heard what happened. But that's not the whole story. I don't know how it happened, or why, or how you feel about it."

"I can't tell you how or why it happened," Ryan claimed. "I don't know. You should talk to Seth."

"Kirsten is talking to Seth. I'm talking to you. And after we have breakfast, we're all going to sit down and talk together."

Ryan concentrated on a spot above Sandy's head, avoiding his eyes. His voice grew desperate. "I know what you're trying to do, Sandy. But I can't . . . Seth was my best friend . . . And every time I think about what he did . . . I can't help it . . . I want . . ."

Sandy noted with sorrow Ryan's use of the word "was." He had put his friendship with Seth into the past tense. "What, Ryan? What do you want? You've got to tell me how you feel here."

Ryan shook his head. He was growing agitated, his hands balled into fists, his breathing rapid and labored. Sandy watched him with mounting concern. This was the Ryan he had picked up on the street corner after getting a desperate phone call, the one he had visited in juvie after the model home burned down. It was all still there in his eyes, the distrust, the anger, the sense of abandonment, the fight or flight instinct.

Sandy could feel Ryan retreating, and his first reaction was to give the boy some space, but he remembered his resolve from last night. No more doing nothing.

"You can tell me," he insisted. "No matter what it is, Ryan."

Ryan shook his head again, more emphatically.

"Then how about if I tell you, and you just let me know if I'm right?" Sandy suggested. "You're furious with Seth. You can't believe he did this to you. You feel betrayed. And you want to strike back. Am I close?"

"Yeah," Ryan choked. "But I can't . . . He's Seth . . . so I can't . . . can't hit him . . . can't just let it go . . . can't even hate him . . ."

"Good. That's good. I'm glad you can't hate him. That's something . . ."

"It's nothing. It's nothing," Ryan argued. He pounded the mattress, wasn't satisfied with the impact, and punched the headboard instead.

"Ryan! Stop," Sandy ordered. "Let me see your hand. Did you hurt it?"

Ryan shook his hand and his head simultaneously, went back to staring at the ceiling.

"I trusted him . . . I feel like I can't anymore . . ."

Sandy edged his chair closer, trying to make Ryan focus on him. "That's a natural reaction, kid. Seth's got a lot to answer for here, and I am not making excuses for him. He's going to have to work to earn back your trust. Ours too . . ." Almost to himself Sandy added, "Damn. I just wish he had come to Kirsten and me."

Ryan caught a rapid breath. "What do you mean? 'Come to you'?"

"Seth should have told us what he'd done himself. He should have at least been willing to take responsibility," Sandy said. "But look, Ryan, that's not your problem . . ."

Ryan dropped his eyes, tightened his jaw. "Yeah. Yeah it is."

The words were rushed and almost inaudible, but Sandy heard them. He frowned, confused. "You want to explain that to me?"

Involuntarily, Ryan's hand moved back to his brace, ripping at the fabric. "Seth wanted to tell you," he admitted hoarsely. "I wouldn't let him."

"Ryan, why the hell . . ." Sandy caught himself, lowered his voice. "Why not? Seth should have told us. Maybe if we had known, things wouldn't have gone this far . . ."

"I just . . . thought it would be better if you and Kirsten didn't know. It was between Seth and me. I didn't want it to be your problem. I thought we should handle it."

"Are you? Handling it?"

"I guess . . . No. Not really."

"You didn't work anything out when Seth visited you at the hospital?"

Ryan's gaze flashed up and immediately down again. "We didn't really . . . talk," he said hesitantly.

Sandy remembered all Seth's evasions and excuses. "Or," he concluded heavily, "Seth never visited you at all."

Ryan took a shaky breath. "He came. Once. I just . . . I was too angry. I told him not to come again."

Sandy sighed. "So all this time, you two have just been avoiding each other. Letting this fester. Seth has been actively lying to us, and you . . . you just haven't been talking at all. Which pretty much is the same thing . . ." Sandy rubbed his hand across his forehead trying to summon both his patience and his skill as a negotiator. "Ryan. Would you look at me, kid?" Reluctantly, Ryan raised his eyes to Sandy's. "You know, Kirsten and I are here for a reason. We could have helped. At least we could have arranged for you to have another shot at your interview . . ."

Ryan's headache suddenly pounced again, an attack from ambush. "Seth said he'd try to do that," he admitted unwillingly. "I told him not to bother."

Sandy tried, but he couldn't mask the exasperation in his voice. "Why would you do that, Ryan? Work with me here. If Seth's trying to put things right, why won't you at least give him the chance?"

"You don't get it!" Ryan cried. "It's not even about the internship any more. That's not what matters. It's about the kind of friend I thought . . . Shit. Just, never mind Sandy. You're right. Seth's right. I've fucked this up so bad. You probably want that apology back now. So I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry."

Ryan ran out of words. He clenched his eyes against the pain pulsing behind them and groped blindly for the prescription bottle on his nightstand. Sandy picked it up, shook out a couple pills and handed them to him along with a glass of water. If Ryan were well, he would force the issue, but Sandy sensed that the boy was dangerously close to a breaking point, and he couldn't risk pushing him too far.

"Okay. Take it easy kid," he said, resting his hand on Ryan's hair. "You're right. I don't get it. I need you to make me understand. But we'll finish this conversation later. You get a reprieve until after breakfast."

Ryan swallowed the pills and laid back, eyes closed. "Thanks," he whispered.

Sandy sighed and returned the water glass to the nightstand. "Kirsten," he said to himself, "I really hope you're having better luck with Seth."


	6. Chapter 5B

The characters got too talkative (or I just got too wordy.) Anyway, I decided to divide this chapter into two parts.

The same disclaimers apply.

**Chapter 5B**

"Unlock this door," Kirsten ordered, knocking sharply. "Seth! Now!"

"'m coming," Seth's muffled voice insisted.

The latch turned, and Seth opened the door, shuffling back to allow Kirsten inside. His demeanor defined anguish: shoulders slumped, hair a thicket of tangled curls, eyes smudged with misery. Behind him, she could see his bed, which was obviously untouched, even though both pillows were jumbled on the floor. They looked like they had been pummeled hard and abandoned.

Seth looked much the same way.

Kirsten's stomach knotted with sympathy. Seth was her baby. He was in pain, and part of her wanted desperately to protect him. But she steeled herself against that impulse. This time, Seth would have to suffer the consequences of his actions. No matter how much it hurt them both.

"You don't have to tell me," Seth muttered. "I already know that I majorly fucked up. I know I'm a terrible person and that you and dad hate me now."

Kirsten sat on the edge of his desk, hands folded on her lap. "I'm sure you do know that you—messed up. But I don't hate you and neither does your father. You're our son and we love you. You did a terrible thing, though, Seth, and we do hate that."

She paused, a little surprised by Seth's uncharacteristic silence. Kirsten had expected him to launch into an immediate defense; she actually hoped he would be able to defend himself. When he still said nothing, she demanded, "How could you do it, Seth?"

Seth shrugged, shuffled to the window, looked out for a moment, then wandered restlessly around the small room. Kirsten watched him, frowning.

"I can't begin to understand to understand what you were thinking. Ryan is your best friend, so how you could do that to him. . . Seth, stop pacing, please. Sit down here and look at me." Kirsten pointed to the desk chair, a command.

Reluctantly, Seth slumped into the seat, but he kept his eyes averted.

"Look at me," Kirsten repeated.

Seth raised his eyes, his expression halfway between defiant and despairing. He fidgeting uncomfortably, expecting a question, but Kirsten decided to wait him out.

"It's not like I planned it," he mumbled finally. "I didn't have some grand master scheme to totally fuck—mess—up Ryan's life. It just, sort of, happened."

"Fine. So start by telling me exactly **_how_** it just sort of happened."

"Don't you want to wait until dad gets here? He's going to join this interrogation, right? Do the whole good cop, bad cop thing? 'Cause if you try it by yourself, you'll get dizzy, Mom."

"Your father is with Ryan right now. Don't worry. He's going to have a few things to say to you later on."

"Great. Something to look forward to."

Kirsten's initial pity for her son was fast evaporating. "You know, young man, this flippant self-pity routine is not winning you any points. Now, tell me what happened."

"Fine," Seth replied in a monotone. "What happened. Ryan was out. I went into the pool house to look for my iPod. The phone rang. I heard the message. I deleted the message."

"On purpose. Not by accident?"

"Yeah . . . I guess . . . yeah. On purpose."

Kirsten had heard enough of the argument last night to know that was what Seth had done, but hearing him admit it was still painful. "But why, Seth? Why would you do that?"

"I don't know, Mom!"

"That's not an answer, Seth," Kirsten argued. "You must have had a reason."

"I was stupid. Okay? . . . That was my reason. It was just, like, some insane impulse. . . Mom, haven't you ever done anything really, really stupid, and the minute you did it, you sort of stood there wondering 'Who is that idiot'? And then you realized, 'oh wait, it's me.'"

Kirsten shook her head. She could remember many occasions when she had been thoughtless and brash, even--as Seth said, "stupid"--but she didn't believe she had ever deliberately hurt a friend. "No, Seth, not really."

"So I guess it's not a genetic condition then." At Kirsten's sharp intake of breath, Seth grimaced. "Sorry. Bad joke."

"Yes, it is. All right, Seth, let's start from the beginning. You listened to Ryan's message. But you know how wrong that it. It's just like opening his mail—"

"I couldn't help it. I was there. You can't shut your ears, Mom." When Kirsten glared at him, Seth added hastily, "Just making a point . . . Really not trying to be funny."

"Good. Because you're not. And here's my point, Seth. Even if erasing the message was some 'insane impulse,' you still knew it was wrong. And you had to realize that Ryan would want to know about the interview--"

Seth leaned forward. "No, see Mom, I really didn't," he claimed eagerly. "Ryan never even mentioned any internship . . . And he kept saying that he didn't have anything going on Saturday . . ." He saw Kirsten's eyes narrow skeptically and continued with more urgency. "Seriously, Mom, I thought Ryan didn't care—"

"You thought!" Kirsten exclaimed. "Seth, why would what you thought matter at all? Why didn't you find out what Ryan thought? You should have just talked to him."

"I talk to him all the time," Seth muttered. "Why doesn't he talk to me?"

Kirsten sighed, suddenly exhausted. "Seth, that's enough. I'm sick of the excuses . . . You knew what you did was wrong. You could have told Ryan the truth before it was too late."

"I did."

"What?"

"I did tell him."

"But, then, I don't understand. Why was Ryan still going to the video conference with you if he knew he had an interview?"

"Okay, I just . . . I didn't exactly say anything until that morning, when we were getting ready to go."

"Oh, Seth . . ."

Seth cut in desperately, trying to silence the disappointment and disillusionment that he heard in Kirsten's voice. "But, Mom, the point is, I did tell him. As soon as I realized how much the interview meant to Ryan, I told him, and . . ."

"And what?"

"He got furious. I've seen Ryan really angry, Mom, but not at me. He turned into, like, a whole different person, and he wouldn't listen to anything I said." Seth's mouth twisted and he tried to block out the memory. "And then he just took off and . . . I nearly killed him, Mom."

Kirsten's eyes widened in comprehension. "Then Ryan was on his bike . . ."

"To get to the interview. Or maybe really . . . just to get away from me . . . I don't know." Seth didn't even seem to realize that he had begun to cry. Kirsten handed him a Kleenex wordlessly. "I tried to get him to wait until you came back, Mom . . . I offered to drive him . . . but he wouldn't listen to me. He was yelling at me to get away from him . . . and that's why he was riding so fast . . . and he didn't see you . . ."

Kirsten couldn't stand it anymore. She slid off the desk and pulled Seth to her, holding him tight. "Okay, honey," she murmured. "We'll figure all of this out . . . Now, breakfast is almost ready and—no arguments—you're coming downstairs. I want you to go and wash your face, all right? And your hair could use a little attention too."

She ruffled it, and Seth smiled shakily. "Well, sure it does, Mom, now. After you messed it up . . ."

---------------------------------------

"So, what? Breakfast is formal in this house now?" Seth asked, looking dubiously at the dining room table, set with platters of pancakes, eggs, muffins, bacon and sausage, carafes of different juices, bowls of fruit salad and a vase of cut flowers. "I was thinking, like, get a bowl of cereal. Maybe eat in my room?"

"Rosa planned a special breakfast to welcome Ryan home," Kirsten explained as Rosa poured coffee at each place. "So no, you will not be eating cereal in your room today . . . Thank you, Rosa. Everything looks wonderful."

"I'm just warming the syrup for the pancakes. Let me know if you need anything else." Rosa smiled at Kirsten, but she gave Seth only a brief nod before she went back into the kitchen.

"Yay. Signed up another member for my fan club," he mumbled. "Got to get to work autographing those 8 by 10 glossies . . . Mom, you're not really expecting Ryan to come out here, are you? 'Cause he ate in his room last night. And he'd probably be more comfortable there . . . with his knee and all . . ."

"You mean you'd be more comfortable with him in his room. Yes, Ryan is joining us. We are having breakfast as a family," Kirsten insisted. Her emphasis on the word 'family' warned Seth not to argue.

"Right." He dropped into his chair and busied himself unfolding and refolding his napkin as Sandy and Ryan appeared in the doorway. "Just one big, happy family here."

Kirsten crossed to give Ryan a quick kiss. He replied with a half smile, but he looked drained, and he glanced outside longingly. Sandy tightened the arm he had wrapped around Ryan's waist and helped him to his customary chair across from Seth.

Both boys worked very hard to look anywhere except at each other, and it became obvious that neither one intended to eat. They completely ignored all the food on the table.

Sighing, Kirsten began to fill their plates. "Rosa worked very hard to prepare all of this. Now eat," she said firmly. "Both of you."

"Isn't force-feeding like, a form of torture?" Seth asked under his breath. Sandy raised his eyebrows meaningfully and he retreated. "Yeah, no . . . Eating now." He stuffed half a muffin into his mouth to prove it.

"You too, Ryan," Kirsten urged. "Rosa made the banana pancakes specially for you."

Ryan chewed the inside of his cheek. Then he nodded, cut his pancake into small, neat pieces and took a bite. "They're really good. Great," he said unenthusiastically.

"All right." Sandy's deliberately hearty tone attempted to counteract Ryan's apathy. "You know, as much as I love a good bagel and schmear, this is what I call a real breakfast . . . Honey, would you pass the bacon?"

Kirsten handed him the platter, searching for some safe topic of conversation. "Sandy, have you told the boys about your mother's phone call?"

"Sweetheart, come on. I make it a rule never to talk about my mother while I'm eating bacon." Sandy lowered his voice, added in a stage whisper. "Trust me, she'd know . . ." He made an elaborate show of finishing his bacon before continuing, "So when she called yesterday, she sounded terrific. She's responding really well to the chemo. In fact, last week she worked on a Habitat for Humanity house. She says she was just holding nails and pouring coffee, but my guess? She probably put up the whole second floor herself."

"Yeah," Seth observed. "That would be Nana. And if she wasn't doing everything herself, I'll bet she was giving orders and telling the workers exactly what they were doing wrong."

Sandy smiled in agreement. "Hey, we all do what we do best."

"It's wonderful though, isn't it?" Kirsten prompted, breaking a brief silence. "That she's doing so well." She looked at Ryan, who nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "It's really great." He took a quick sip of his juice and sank back in his seat.

There was a pause. It was as if that short exchange had exhausted them all. Then Sandy rallied again.

"You know, you guys missed a great show this morning." He did his best Arnold Schwarzenegger accent. "Kirsten the Terminator in action right in our own foyer."

Despite themselves, both boys glanced up curiously.

Sandy grinned at them. "She took on Julie and Caleb. Together. And you know, as scary as those two are by themselves, together they're like a force of nature. Unstoppable. But they didn't stand a chance against the Kirsten today. I don't think they knew what hit them."

"Yeah?" Seth asked. "Mom hit them?"

"Of course not, Seth!"

"Hey, Mom, it's not like you never slapped grandpa before. Or threw a vase at him." Seth smiled innocently. "I'm just saying . . ."

Sandy checked Ryan's reaction. He didn't join the conversation, but he was watching with interest over the rim of his juice glass, and his body language seemed more relaxed, or at least much less wary.

"Nah, no flying fists today. Kirsten just cut them down with words. Oh, and a door slammed in their faces. There was Caleb, all affronted dignity and self-righteousness. And Julie, looking like your mother had just insulted her hairstyle. I tell you boys, it was a thing of beauty."

"Sandy, really!" Kirsten protested. "I'm not proud of the way I treated my father . . . Well, maybe I am a little. But only because he deserved it."

"Yeah? Why?" Seth prompted. "What did grandpa do?"

Sandy hesitated, and Seth caught the uneasy glance that his parents exchanged. Immediately his mood deflated. "Oh . . . " he concluded bitterly. "Let me guess. This was about me, right? . . . Grandpa disowned you for giving him such a lameass heir. Or maybe he just skipped the middle man and went straight to disowning me."

"Seth, it wasn't that at all," Kirsten claimed uncomfortably. "Your grandfather and Julie just wanted to make sure everyone was all right here."

"And their phone didn't work, right? Or, like, none of their fifteen different phones . . . So you got upset why, exactly? Because they might invite themselves to breakfast and we'd have to share the muffins?"

"Seth . . ." Sandy cautioned, but Seth continued, oblivious.

"It had nothing to do with grandpa deciding that I'm an embarrassment to the family, right? . . . I bet he's glad that my last name is Cohen and not Nichol. It will make it easier for him to pretend that we're not related."

All three Cohens were startled when Ryan suddenly spoke, his voice low and caustic. "Yeah, of course it was about you, Seth . . . Isn't everything?"

Seth's eyes flashed angrily. "I didn't mean that," he snapped.

Ryan shrugged.

"Hell, Ryan, you just have to think the worst of me, don't you?"

And just like that the fragile moment of détente shattered.

Sandy held up his hands in a peace-keeping gesture. "Okay. Back to your corners, guys . . ." he ordered. "We were going to hold off the serious discussion until after breakfast, but I guess we might as well deal with it now."

"Don't you mean deal with me?" Seth demanded. "Because I'm the problem, right Ryan?"

"Like I said . . . always all about you," Ryan muttered.

Seth slammed his palms flat on the table, spilling his water glass. "I know I was wrong!" he yelled, ignoring the liquid pooling around his plate and dripping onto the floor. "What do you want me to do? Have it tattooed on my forehead? Maybe wear a scarlet S for shitass . . .?"

"Seth . . ." Sandy warned, but Seth ignored him.

"Come on, dude . . . I've apologized, I've offered to try and fix this. What do you want me to do?" he repeated furiously. "You know, maybe if you actually talked me to me once in a while, told me how you felt, I'd have a clue . . ."

Ryan glared, his jaw tightening.

"Oh, yeah, the look . . . that's supposed to tell me everything I need to know, right?" Seth mocked.

"Seth . . . Ryan . . . Stop it," Kirsten pleaded. "This isn't going to solve anything. You're going to say something you can't take back . . ."

Seth slumped in his chair, twisting his soaked napkin in his hand.

Ryan looked at Kirsten, his eyes desolate. He was about to speak when he heard Seth mumble, "No danger of that, Mom, 'cause that would require Ryan to actually talk to me."

Rosa's apologetic voice interrupted them. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cohen, Mr. Cohen . . . It's Lindsay, Ryan. She's already called three times this morning, and she sounds so upset. Should I just say that you're having breakfast and can't talk now?"

Ryan looked at her blankly, then shook his head and held out his hand for the phone. Rosa gave it to him and discreetly left the room. For a moment, Ryan clutched the phone, white-knuckled. Then suddenly he shoved it across the table at Seth, who fumbled to catch it when it bounced off his chest.

"You want to get that for me, 'bro'?" Ryan asked coldly. "Or maybe you could just take a message."

Sandy, shocked, reproached him automatically. "Ryan!"

"What?" Ryan protested. "He wants to know how I feel. Well, that's it. That's how I feel."

He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his crutch. "So now you know. Happy, Seth?" he demanded, and lurched out the door.

Wordlessly, Seth handed his mother the phone. She whispered into it, "Ryan will have to call you back, Lindsay" and hung up.

"You see?" Seth choked, knocking over his chair in his haste to leave. "Screw this. Why the fuck should I even try? Oh, and by the way, Mom? Dad? Thanks for the great breakfast."

As Seth stormed out of the room, Sandy crossed to Kirsten, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She sagged against him, staring at the shambles of their family meal.

"We knew it wasn't going to be easy," he reminded her.

Kirsten nodded. "I know. But Sandy . . . What are we going to do now?"


	7. Chapter 6

Thanks to all of you who have read and reviewed.

All standard disclaimers apply. And no beta, so if spell check and grammar check didn't find the mistakes, you will.

**Collision Course Chapter 6 **

Seth lay on his bed, staring at nothing, idly bouncing Captain Oats on his lap. His headset was on, the music at top volume in an attempt to drown out his thoughts.

Since the disastrous "welcome home" breakfast three days ago, Seth had seldom voluntarily left his room. Where would he go anyway? His parents had grounded him, and normally in that situation, he would seek refuge with Ryan in the pool house. But Ryan was still staying in the guest room downstairs, and, when they did see each other in passing, or during enforced Let's-Play-Happy-Family meals, their relationship was, at best, strained.

It was distant.

It was tenuous.

It was fucking **_polite_**.

It was terrible.

Ryan's presence in the house was exactly why Seth had put himself under room-arrest.

He really didn't want to face Ryan if he could help it.

Seth didn't want to face the people who came to visit Ryan either, the people who were supposed to be his friends too. Not after the accidental encounters that he'd already had with them.

Luke had stopped by the house several times before going back to Portland. On Sunday afternoon, Seth had been making a stealth foray to the kitchen for supplies when Luke came in carrying empty soda cans to the recycling bin.

"Out of the way, Cohen," he ordered, with a shove to Seth's shoulder.

Seth tripped and caught hold of the counter. "Hey, Luke . . . Nice to see you too . . ." He gave a self-deprecating snort, choosing to pretend that the contact hadn't been intentional. "I've gotta work on the whole balancing-on-two-legs thing . . . So I just . . . how have you been, dude?"

Luke grunted.

"Yeah, I feel that. . . So, you know, I've been thinking about this summer. Maybe I could come up and stay with you and your dad again? Get my old job back? . . . I seriously don't think that anybody here would mind me being out of the state this time." Seth heard the bitterness in his own voice, and changed tactics. He nudged Luke conspiratorially. "We could hook up with those babes at the pier again, right?"

"Suck it, Cohen."

"Okay . . . Getting a little sense of déjà vu here . . . Flashback to freshman year . . . Actually, kindergarten through freshman year. I thought we were friends now Luke."

Luke crushed one of the soda cans in his fist, sneering. "Yeah? Think again. Why would I be friends with you after what you did to Chino?"

"Come on!" Seth protested. "Pot? Kettle? Black? You treated me like shit for years, and I forgave you."

"Yeah," Luke countered. "I was an ass back then and I admit it. But we weren't friends at the time, Cohen. You and Chino were. Supposedly. And you're supposed to have a friend's back. Not stab it. So I think I'll just watch mine around you from now on."

He grabbed a couple fresh cans of soda from the fridge and turned to go. At the door he stopped to add, "But hey . . . having company this summer might not be a bad idea. Lindsay's going to be gone for six weeks, and Chino will be lonely. Thanks to you. Maybe I'll invite him for a visit . . . Catch you later, Cohen. If I'm real unlucky."

It had gone no better when Marissa and Alex came by.

Seth had met them while he was wheeling the trashcans out behind the house. That had become one of his regular chores. His parents had assigned him all the grunt work they could devise: taking out the garbage, cleaning the pool, unloading the groceries, sweeping up the deck. Seth knew it was punishment—cruel and unusual sweat-producing punishment—but he also suspected that his parents were trying to force him out of his room. Which might not have been unusual, but was definitely cruel.

Alex arched her brows when she saw him. "Good job for you there, Seth," she drawled. "You may have found your niche in life . You . . . garbage . . . it all seems to fit."

Marissa pursed her lips and giggled.

Seth froze, shocked. He hadn't expected Alex to turn on him. True, they had broken up—actually, she had broken up with him—but Seth thought they still had a solid, supportive relationship. At least enough for him to claim her loyalty. Or, at minimum, her neutrality. At this point, he'd be willing to settle just for that.

Someone must be handing out free DVDs to new members of the Seth Sucks Society.

"Yeah," he sputtered. "Go ahead. Have some laughs. On me. My treat, ladies . . . Want some rotten tomatoes to throw while you're at it? 'Cause, you know, the garbage is right here."

"We see it," Marissa smirked, but Alex put a hand on her arm, silencing her.

"No, you're right, Seth" she sighed. "This isn't funny. It's really just . . . sad. I haven't known you that long, but I really thought that I did . . . know you." She moved closer, tilted her head to study his face. After a moment she sighed again and stepped back. "Guess not, though . . . Come on, Marissa. We can only visit Ryan for about half an hour before I've got to leave for work . . ."

Over her shoulder, as she and Marissa walked into the house, Alex called back, "You know how you claimed to be a bad boy, Seth, and I thought you couldn't pull it off? I guess it was in you after all."

Worst of all was Seth's meeting with Lindsay.

He had been sprawled on the floor of his room, idly examining the texture of his ceiling, when he heard the thick sound of heavy items falling beneath him.

"What the fuck?" he wondered.

He was pretty sure that his mother and Rosa were both out, but the crash was followed by a muffled female cry, so he rolled over and crawled to the top of the stairs to check. Lindsay stood just inside the front door. She was surrounded by books, small weights, and a few items Seth decided had to be giant Lego's. Her hair masked her face, her hands were clenched at her sides, and she stood motionless, staring at the chaos on the floor.

Seth considered retreating. Lindsay hadn't noticed him, and he figured he was the last person that she would want to see. He started to duck back toward his room when he heard Ryan's voice. It was a rare enough sound these days that it made him pause.

"Lindsay? Are you okay? Do you need any help? I could come out there . . . "

Lindsay's head jerked up. "No, Ryan!" she cried. "It's . . . I'm fine. I'm just . . . I'm such a klutz sometimes. But it's okay, really . . . I've got it." She knelt down and began to gather everything she'd dropped.

Seth took a deep breath, came downstairs and crouched beside her. "Let me," he offered. "I'll pick them up . . ."

Lindsay's eyes flickered over him. Her expression was guarded, but she stood up, brushing her palms over her skirt. "Thanks," she said curtly.

"This is all, what? Secret ingredients for some science project?"

She nodded.

"You and Ryan aren't, like, building a bomb or anything in there, are you? 'Cause I'm pretty sure we aren't insured for that." When Lindsay didn't respond, Seth tried again. "You know, manual labor . . . so not my thing. But this stuff is really heavy. If you want, I could carry it in for you . . . " He gestured towards Ryan's room hesitantly.

"No!" Lindsay snapped. Then she bit her lip and lowered her voice. "Thanks anyway. I can manage."

Lindsay waited for Seth to hand back the restacked items, but he just put them down on the foyer table. She moved to retrieve them, but Seth sidled in front, blocking her.

"Okay. I get that you don't want me around," he conceded. "Easiest way to clear a room? Have me walk in . . . But could we at least talk, Lindsay? I want to explain . . . I mean, I can't explain, but come on, we're family . . ."

Lindsay took a step back from Seth. "Don't . . ." she warned. "You don't want to hear what I have to say to you. Right now I can't even look at you . . . And the idea that we're related . . ." She shuddered and started to turn away, but then whirled back around. "God, Seth, do you have any idea what you did?"

"I don't know . . ." Seth dropped on the bottom step, hunched over his knees. He'd held on to a thin metal tube he had picked up and now he began rolling it between his palms. "Let's see if I've got this . . . I nearly killed my best friend . . . and now he wants nothing to do with me . . ."

"No, see, that's not it at all," Lindsay argued. "Ryan doesn't care about the accident. He doesn't blame you for that, and neither do I . . . Well, I guess I still do, a little, but Ryan doesn't . . . It's just . . . He can't trust you, Seth. I think he trusted you more than anyone else in his life . . . and now he can't. And that's killing him."

"This whole thing is killing me too, Lindsay . . . " Seth began.

She raised her chin and stared him down. "You know what? I. Don't. Care."

They heard Ryan's voice calling again, concerned. "Lindsay? . . . What's going on? Do you need me out there?"

"No, don't come, Ryan! . . . I'm okay. I'll be right in." Lindsay scrambled to bundle all the books and materials into her arms, wrenching away when Seth moved to help her. "Stay away from me . . ." she hissed. "And if you want to do something for Ryan, stay away from him too." Then, suddenly, her eyes clouded and she whispered sorrowfully. "I hate you for making me say that. Because I really loved all of us together. I really loved . . . having a brother for a little while."

-----------------------------------------------

Ryan had both windows wide open to catch the late afternoon breeze, but he still felt suffocated. Even though the guestroom was huge, big enough for a king-size bed, two armchairs, a dresser, a desk and a TV, the space seemed crowded and stifling. Luke was sprawled across one chair, legs flung over the arm, relaying the play-by-play action of his video game loudly to everybody else, even though no one was paying attention. Zach sat on the floor, describing a water polo match to Lindsay, who was listening politely but with no visible interest, while Marissa and Summer were flipping through fashion magazines in the corner.

Ryan was sure that they were using up all of the available oxygen.

He'd removed himself from the conversations and hidden behind a book half an hour ago, trying to make himself still and invisible. It wasn't working. He couldn't just disappear, and he couldn't ignore everyone around him. Maybe these visits were well-intentioned—all right, he knew that they were—but they were starting to piss him off. He wasn't sick, he wasn't fucking needy, he wasn't six years old and afraid to be alone in the dark. Besides, there was something so . . . off . . . about having the whole group gathered around him. They acted like some self-appointed support system, all of them relentlessly cheerful, trying to keep Ryan busy and involved and oblivious, racing to fill any silences that would normally be obliterated by Seth's constant chatter.

He supposed this was friendship in some form, and he suspected that he was being ungrateful, but Ryan wished to hell that they would all just go.

"You know what?" he asked abruptly, tossing his book to the side. "I'm sort of hungry. I'm just gonna go get . . ." He waved vaguely toward the kitchen and reached for his crutch.

Lindsay looked up with concern. "Are you okay, Ryan? I could fix you something. Well, as long as it was something simple."

"Or we could order," Luke suggested enthusiastically. "Hey, there's an idea. Food! I know I could eat. Pizza? Chinese? Mexican? Who's in? And who's got money, 'cause I'm kind of tapped. Chino, any preferences, man?"

"Nah." Ryan made his way to the door. "You guys order if you want. I'll just get a bowl of cereal or something . . ."

"You want company?" Lindsay offered. "Cereal's simple enough even for me. I could fix it for you." She got up and reached for Ryan's hand, but he pulled it away with an apologetic grin.

"Thanks," he said, kissing her forehead. "But I'm good. I just want to stretch my legs a little . . ."

Lindsay nodded and smiled, although her eyes were worried. "Okay. But come back. You don't have to eat alone, you know. We're all here."

Ryan scanned all the activity in his room. "I know. Thanks," he said dryly, and eased himself out the door.

Once he was in the hall, Ryan put his crutch down on the floor, leaned against the wall and sighed.

Yes, they were all there. In his room. Well, no, in the guestroom, which was not his at all, unless that was what he had become. A guest.

Maybe he had.

Ryan wasn't sure how he fit in the Cohen household anymore.

Music and voices spilled out of the room, and Ryan wished he had closed the door. The noise would carry upstairs, and it sounded too much like a party, one to which Seth had not been invited. A totally artificial, totally cheerless party, with people making a point of gathering around Ryan. Not Seth.

Battle lines had been drawn, armies had mustered, and Seth was fighting alone.

Ryan couldn't stand much more of it.

Abandoning his crutch where it lay, Ryan used the wall to support himself as he made his way to the kitchen. He was about to pass the TV room when he heard voices.

"You're wrong, Sandy," Kirsten was arguing. "It will just make things worse."

Sandy's tone was tired. "I don't think so honey. We agreed that we had to do something."

"I know that, but if we force the issue, the boys will just wind up hating us and each other."

"Kirsten, you're being too emotional . . ."

"Don't tell me that!"

Ryan winced at the anger and pain in her voice, involuntarily grinding his teeth in empathy. When Sandy spoke, his tone was calm, cajoling.

"Honey, they're not going to hate us, and they don't hate each other. They're just angry and frustrated, and they don't know how to deal with it. Seth and Ryan don't have any real experience with being mad at each other. They've always been on the same side before. But all friends argue. Siblings too . . . Look at you and Hailey."

Ryan could tell that Sandy was trying to disarm Kirsten, but she was having none of it.

"Me and Hailey?" she protested in disbelief. "There is no comparison, Sandy. We're sisters and I love her, but we were never friends, and no matter what she's done—we've done—Hailey and I never hurt each other the way Seth and Ryan have."

"I just mean that you've managed to get past your differences."

Kirsten's voice rose, becoming even more incredulous. "So you think this is just some difference of opinion? Some little disagreement, Sandy? Because I don't. It goes a lot deeper than that. The boys don't want to be around each other any more, they don't talk to each other. Not voluntarily. Have you heard the house in the evening after everybody has gone home?"

"Kirsten . . ."

"No," she insisted. "It is so quiet, Sandy. It's worse than it was last summer when they were both gone, because then the house was empty. Now they're here, and they're still gone."

"And I'm trying to do something about that, if you would just listen, sweetheart—"

Ryan heard a sharp sound, as if Kirsten was pulling away, before Sandy continued angrily. "Fine. If you have a better idea, let me know what it is."

"I don't have any ideas, Sandy! All I know is that when we took Ryan in, it was really hard. It changed our whole family. But Seth was so sure that it would work, and so were you—"

Ryan didn't want to hear any more. He willed himself to move away, but something held him in place, forcing him to listen.

"It has worked, Kirsten," Sandy said quietly.

When she answered, Kirsten's voice sounded brittle and muffled. Ryan couldn't see her, but he imagined her hand cupped over her mouth, fingers digging into her cheek.

"I know. It all started to make sense. I could see Seth and Ryan as brothers, and I loved the fact that Seth wasn't an only child any more, that we had two sons. Only now . . . Sandy, it doesn't feel like we have any." Kirsten choked, finished hopelessly. "I hate this."

She started to cry, and when Ryan heard Sandy move to comfort her he realized that he had been holding his breath, waiting for the words that would end everything.

Carefully, silently, Ryan slid back toward the guestroom. When he got to the stairs he stopped for a moment, clenching his fists and dropping his head back against the wall. As he did, he caught a movement above him—Seth, looking as stricken and miserable as Ryan felt. He was on the landing, in one of his favorite eavesdropping stations, his arm wrapped around the banister. When he saw Ryan, he ducked away instantly and disappeared into his room.

And closed the door.


	8. Chapter 7

I really appreciate all the generous, thought-provoking feedback.

As always, standard disclaimers apply.

**Collision Course Chapter 7**

Seth stretched out on his bed, contemplating the nature of individual days.

He'd always thought that each day had a personality. Monday was eager and pushy and tended to barge right in. Tuesday was apologetic, as if it had to make up for Monday's bad manners. Wednesday was mopey, suffering from middle child syndrome, unable to forge any unique character of its own. Thursday was careful and dutiful, putting things in order, trying to tidy up before guests arrive. Friday was a little obnoxious, a runner, throwing its arms in the air, bursting through the finish line, ready to celebrate a win. Saturday . . . well, Saturday was drunk, a giddy, funny, charming, witty drunk (never a puking or embarrassing drunk, though. And Seth would know.) Then there was Sunday, slightly nostalgic, slow to move, but ready for a clean slate, all set to start again.

Seth had been alone in his room for so long that realized he had no idea what day it was without checking a calendar. Oh, yes, going to school told him what day it was supposed to be, but their individual personalities had vanished completely. They were all exactly alike, blank-faced Nothingday clones.

If he had more energy or interest in the subject, Seth might have believed that he'd discovered something profound, maybe a philosophy that deserved an "ism" attached to its name.

Sethism, maybe. Or did that sound too much like sexism? With a lisp.

And maybe it was also a little too me-centric.

Seth would worry about it, except.

He really didn't care.

Mentally, Seth switched activities and bounced an imaginary ball against his wall, but when, in his mind, he missed the catch, he gave that up too.

The knock on his bedroom door made Seth sat up hastily and pull a book in front of him. Both of his parents had made it clear that they were sick of finding him lying around doing nothing, so he figured he better at least act busy. He didn't need to give them anything else to be mad about.

"It's open, Mom. Or Dad. Whoever," Seth called.

He jumped, shocked, when he heard Summer's voice.

"If you were a gentleman, Cohen, you'd get off your ass and open the door for me."

"Summer," he stammered. "Summer. You're here and . . . yeah, you're here." Then he shrugged and added dismally, "What did you do, make a wrong turn? Ryan's room is downstairs."

Summer picked up a dirty t-shirt from his bed, holding it at arm's length between her thumb and index finger. "Ew. Do you have to wallow in self- pity and filth, Cohen?" She deposited the t-shirt on a pile of clothes in a corner and then sat on the patch of comforter that she'd cleared. "Anyway, I didn't come to see Ryan this time, idiot. I came to see you. I figured you might need a friend."

Seth looked at her in surprise. "Yeah? A friend?" he asked hopefully. "Then you don't think I'm a total ass?"

"Of course I think you're a total ass, Cohen . . . Although maybe not. That could be unfair to asses . . ."

"Oh, funny. So what? Mocking me is your idea of friendship?"

"Hey, I'm here, Cohen. I'm talking to you. Take what you can get . . ." Summer warned. "So come on. Tell me why you did it. I mean, Ryan's your best friend. You must have a reason, right?"

Seth buried his face in his hands. "Everybody has got to stop asking me that."

"Well, they might if you'd ever actually answer the question." Summer rapped her knuckles on Seth's forehead. "Hey! Don't try to hide in there. Cohen!"

"I'd answer the fucking question if I had a fucking answer," Seth retorted, his voice muffled.

"Ooh, profanity. I think I struck a nerve."

"You strike everything. People should be issued body armor when they have to be around you."

Summer grinned. "Now that's the Seth Cohen I know and . . . sometimes find tolerable." She smoothed her short skirt and assumed a businesslike posture. "Okay, Cohen, you couldn't answer the 1000 question. Let's try the 500 one. Why the hell were you mad at Ryan the night he came home? See, I can get why he would be mad at you. But vice versa? Not so much. Answer, please. The clock is ticking. The Jeopardy theme song is playing . . ."

Seth blew air out between his fingers. "He wouldn't forgive me."

"Ohhh." Summer nodded wisely. "Well then, no wonder. Shame on him."

"No, I mean he wouldn't forgive me, or let me try to make things right . . . I was gonna confess to my parents. They weren't going to have to just . . . " Seth shuddered at the recollection. "Overhear it."

"And Ryan didn't want you to?"

"No."

"Because?"

"Because he didn't want to upset them. He thought knowing they had a son who could do such a shitty thing would make them feel shitty too."

"And?"

"And he was pretty much right," Seth admitted, adding, before Summer could say anything, "But he was wrong too. I should have told them."

"Cohen, you know what? I agree with you," Summer declared positively. "If you had told your Mom and Dad they wouldn't have to find out in front of everybody. Especially your grandfather and Marissa's mom. That . . ." She shook her head and frowned, "was pretty brutal."

"Great," Seth concluded sarcastically. "One for my side. One million for Ryan's."

Summer rolled her eyes in disgust. "Is that seriously what you want? Sides? Keeping score? Because that is so going to make things worse."

"Worse, huh?"

"The worst," Summer said definitely. "And now that we've established that—we have established it, right-you should come out of your little bumpy turtle shell and face the world. Do it, Cohen. What have you got to lose?"

Seth dropped his hands and looked at her. "Nothing. Nothing to lose 'cause I've got nothing . . . No friends anyway. You know those leper colonies they used to have, Summer? Really would like to find one of those now . . . At least then I could hang out with the rest of the pariahs."

Summer shook her head again. "Self-pity, Cohen. Not an attractive quality . . . And I think it's pretty much what got you into this situation, right? You weren't having much of a life, Ryan was doing things that didn't include you, you were jealous and feeling sorry for yourself . . ."

"Are you charging me for this analysis?"

"Ooh, there's this adorable new purse I'd like to buy. Maybe I should."

"Well, fine, Dr. Roberts. You got it in one. Does your wisdom extend to fixing the problem?"

Summer laced her fingers under her chin and considered. "I'm not sure exactly . . . but I think you could start by acting like a friend. You, like, totally ignored Ryan's interests before, right? So now why don't you think about what Ryan wants and see if you can help him get it?"

Seth snorted. "Fine. He doesn't want me to be his friend."

"Cohen!" Summer exclaimed impatiently. "Did I ask you what he doesn't want? I don't think so. Learn to listen, okay? Now, what does Ryan want? And don't even mention any CDs or video games or Cohen-y toys. I mean, what really matters to him?"

Seth opened his mouth and closed it. A month ago, he would have answered that question with easy confidence. Now, after being so wrong about the internship, he realized to his surprise that he didn't trust what he thought he knew about Ryan. "I . . . don't know," he admitted sheepishly.

"Well then, genius, figure it out," Summer urged. "And when you do, give me a call. Maybe, if I'm feeling generous, I'll help you work out the next step." She stood up to leave, adding, with her hand on the door. "And Cohen, clean up this place before the health department makes you do it."

"Clean. Right. Will do . . . Hey, Summer. Thanks. For coming. And talking to me and all."

She smiled, a little smugly. "It's the candy striper in me. I minister to the infirm. And by the way, Cohen, other people might talk to you too, if they could find you. Hiding out up here? Just makes you seem guilty. Besides, other people aren't as willing as I am to pick their way through the landfill. Rejoin the world, okay?"

Summer swept out of the room with a backwards wave, and Seth bounced on the bed.

His first instinct was to race to the pool house with the news flash. She might act flippant, but Seth knew: he was definitely back on Summer's radar. Now he needed to dissect every word and gesture and get Ryan's advice: What did her visit mean exactly? How fast should he move? What approach should he take? Should he go for eager? Grateful? Suave? Could he even do suave?

Seth could actually hear his conversation with Ryan play in his head; he could picture Ryan's initial skepticism and raised eyebrows giving way to a congratulatory grin. Then he stopped, stunned by his own temporary amnesia.

He couldn't talk about this with Ryan.

He couldn't talk about anything with Ryan.

That was the whole point.

Maybe Seth and Summer had moved a little closer, but the chasm between him and Ryan hadn't narrowed at all.

Seth sank back, bumping his head on the wall, and wondered: What did Ryan want exactly?

-

The books Lindsay had brought to help Ryan catch up on his schoolwork were scattered around the floor, half-hidden under discarded items of clothing, and a chair was jammed against the door. Ryan had pushed it there twenty minutes earlier, explaining "No lock. And I don't want to be interrupted. And I really don't want to study. Lindsay . . ."

He had given her one of those smoldering looks that melted everything solid inside her, including all her good intentions, and Lindsay, flushed, had smiled happily in anticipation.

"You know," she had murmured, savoring his first slow, soft kisses, "we need to be careful."

"Always," Ryan promised.

He took his time, sliding her shirt off her shoulders, breathing against her skin, and following each hot breath with his tongue until he had licked his way down her throat, across her collarbone, along the inside of her arm.

When he reached her hand, Lindsay's fingers twisted in his hair and pulled his face down between her breasts. Ryan's eyes were half-closed, but Lindsay kept her own open.

She loved to watch him love her.

Every time they'd been together, he treated her body like a gift he had been given, a package wrapped so beautifully that he didn't want to rush to get inside. He wanted to open it slowly, uncurl each ribbon, unfold the fragile paper, appreciate and admire it from every angle. Ryan timed every move to her body's response, never rushed her, always coaxed her along until their rhythms meshed perfectly. She never knew how it was possible, but with him, Lindsay felt, somehow, both wholly safe and deliciously out of control.

But tonight, somehow, things changed. Ryan changed.

It happened in an instant. One moment Lindsay recognized Ryan, understood and trusted him completely; the next, he was a stranger in the dark and she was afraid.

Ryan's muscles tensed and his body clamped down hard on hers. His fingers dug into her flesh, and even though she was nowhere near ready, his erection thrust against her with a kind of heedless urgency. Lindsay could hear sounds deep in Ryan's throat, like the snarls of a feral animal, cornered, and ready to strike. Passion become insistence, desire became demand, eager hands and mouth turned rough and devouring until that all Lindsay could feel were teeth and nails and need.

"Ryan," she gasped, trying unsuccessfully to writhe out from under him. "I don't think . . . we shouldn't . . ." Her sweat-slick hands slid off his shoulders, and she pushed back against the bed for leverage.

"Yes, we should," Ryan growled. He nuzzled deeper into her neck, gripping her back, breaking the skin as he grazed around her ear.

"No, I mean . . . Stop! Stop it!" Lindsay cried. The edge of panic in her voice ripped through Ryan and he sat up, stunned.

His eyes were unfocused, and he had to wait a few moments before speaking. "What? You don't want to . . .?"

"No . . . Yes, I do, yes," Lindsay tugged back her damp hair, briefly fingering a bruise that was already forming on her shoulder. "But . . ." She couldn't think how to explain what had gone wrong. Embarrassed, strangely ashamed, she settled for an evasive, "You could hurt . . . yourself." She gestured at Ryan's sling, which dangled uselessly around his neck, and the brace that he'd ripped off and tossed to the floor.

Ryan stared at them blankly. He seemed to have forgotten not only that he had been wearing them, but what they were for.

"Remember? You could do some serious damage if you go too fast, or . . . hard," Lindsay explained as she sat up. She eased his arm back into the sling, checking to make sure that the fabric lay smooth, and his shoulder was positioned properly.

"Mm. All better now. And I'll be . . . really careful this time." " Ryan murmured, catching her fingers in his mouth.

Lindsay pulled them away gently. "You said that before," she reminded him. "Maybe we should go back to studying. Or we could just talk. We're in the house, Ryan . . . and I'm not sure this is right."

"It's right," he insisted.

He leaned forward, panting, his body urging Lindsay onto the bed. She lay down, stroking his face, hoping to summon the Ryan she knew, wanting him to say her name. Instead, he groaned. His eyes went dark and shuttered, and his hand plunged under her bra, shoving it up so he could suck her breast, while he ground his uninjured knee between her legs, forcing them open.

"Ryan . . . Ryan, wait. Don't."

Ryan moaned, fumbling to find the zipper on her jeans, scratching her as he yanked it down. Lindsay resisted. She wedged both hands firmly against his chest, pushing him away from her.

"Ryan, no!"

"No? . . . What the fuck?" He pushed the words out between irregular breaths. "You said . . . you wanted to."

"I want to be with you, but I don't . . . I feel used . . . like this. Ryan, get up. Get off me. Please . . . You're not like this . . . Please."

Ryan released his grip abruptly, twisting upright, and Lindsay pulled herself from underneath him. She sat for a minute catching her breath, waiting for Ryan to say something. When he didn't, when he wouldn't even look at her, she slid closer, placing her hand gently on his wrist.

His fingers dug into the mattress. "I wasn't using you. I don't . . ." he said flatly. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"Ryan," Lindsay whispered. "You were doing that. You barely knew I was there. I could have been anybody . . . I just don't want us to be like that." She waited through more long moments of silence and then added, "It doesn't mean I don't want you."

Ryan turned to her, his eyes despairing. "God, Lindsay. I'm so sorry . . . Did I hurt you? I swear I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Mostly just . . . my feelings," Lindsay said. She didn't want her voice to shake, but it did anyway. "And you scared me, a little." Ryan's face flashed agonized remorse, and she continued quickly, "But you stopped, Ryan. You stopped. Honestly, it's all right."

"It's not," Ryan insisted. He pulled his hand away, made a fist that he jabbed, hard, into his own thigh. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Everything is just so . . . fucked up . . . I don't even know how it got so out of control. And now I'm just making it worse . . . I think . . .Lindsay, you should go."

"Ryan, I don't want to go," Lindsay argued gently. She slid her arm up his back, and edged nearer. "I just want you to . . . see me when you're with me."

Ryan's eyes were dark and desolate. He nodded and rested his forehead against hers. "I will. I won't do . . . that . . . again," he promised. "I just thought . . . it's so fucking weird here now . . ."

He broke off, sighed, and sat up straight. Lindsay positioned herself against the headboard of the bed and patted the spot next to her. Ryan looked at her dubiously, but she nodded, so he inched next to her, settling close with another sigh.

"Weird how? Talk to me Ryan."

He dropped his head onto her shoulder unconsciously, pulling her hand onto his lap and playing with her fingers.

"Nothing feels real here anymore."

"Go on." Lindsay stroked his hair as he spoke.

"That sounds stupid, but . . . Sandy and Kirsten are so careful around me. It's like they rehearse everything they say, and they keep watching me . . . and Seth. Just, sort of, waiting. And Kirsten . . ."

Ryan stopped. Kirsten was Lindsay's sister. He didn't want to tell her how worried he was. Maybe she hadn't noticed that Kirsten seldom left the house anymore, that she never looked rested or relaxed, that her hands seemed to flutter in the air uselessly when they weren't holding a glass.

"I think she still feels guilty, like all this was her fault . . . But it's not, none of it, and I don't know how to convince her . . ."

"What else, Ryan?"

He felt drowsy and detached, as if Lindsay's fingers were hypnotizing him. "I've heard them arguing. . . Kirsten and Sandy. Seth has too, I think. But they don't know we heard, so they act like nothing's wrong. And Sandy keeps joking and working so hard to pretend everything is . . . well, the way it used to be."

Ryan thought about the family dinners Kirsten and Sandy still insisted on. Every night Sandy would launch monologues to cover the uncomfortable silence at the table. He would describe his work day, outbursts at court, how he passed the time talking with the driver in the next lane during a rush-hour traffic jam and discovered that they'd both clerked in the same law office while they were in college, ten years apart. Occasionally he would pause for Kirsten's questions and Seth's and Ryan's half-hearted comments, but Sandy made sure the conversation never came to a stop. Then, after dinner, he would make the whole family gather in the living room for a movie.

It was as if he hoped that pretending normalcy could somehow, magically, produce normalcy.

Lindsay could sense Ryan drifting into his own thoughts, and she really didn't want him there alone. "Keep talking, Ryan," she urged.

"Yeah, and everybody else is being so . . . nice. All these people come by to see me, but nobody knows what to say. Except they all know the subject to avoid . . ."

"Seth."

"Yeah . . . Seth." Ryan's fingers tightened around Lindsay's. "And it's not just that they avoid talking about Seth. They act like he's not their friend anymore. That doesn't even make sense, Lindsay. He didn't do anything to them." Ryan frowned, his jaw tensing in frustration.

"They're just trying to be supportive, Ryan," Lindsay said cautiously.

"But what happened between me and Seth . . . it's not their problem," Ryan argued. "This is Seth's home. He shouldn't feel like he's not even welcome in it."

Lindsay moved a hand to Ryan's back, began rubbing small circles on it. "It sounds like maybe . . . you're not as upset with Seth as you were before."

Ryan sighed. "I don't know how I feel. I don't want to be mad at him anymore . . . and I'm not, really, not the way I was at first, but . . ."

"But you're not ready to forgive him."

Ryan shook his head, his hair brushing against Lindsay's cheek. "It's not that. At least I don't think so . . . It's just, he's Seth, you know? I never thought I'd have to forgive him—not for anything that matters anyway."

"He is really sorry, Ryan."

"I know. I know that."

He wished he could get his thoughts and feelings straight. They kept getting tangled, maybe because of the constant dull headache that had settled behind his eyes when he first came home and had never quite gone away. Or maybe the twisted emotions were causing the headache. Either way Ryan was having a hard time sorting through the mess of sensations inside him.

Physical pain was so much easier to handle. And he was desperate for physical release, anything to take him out of his own head. But he knew he couldn't push Lindsay the way he had. He hadn't meant to do that, not to her.

Ryan became aware that she was speaking to him. "So?" she was prompting. "Ryan? If you know Seth's sorry, and you don't want to be mad at him anymore, what's the problem exactly?"

"I owe Seth, you know?"

"I don't understand, Ryan," Lindsay said, confused. "You owe him what?"

Ryan pulled away so that he could face her. His voice was low and somehow ashamed. "Everything, pretty much. My being here. It was because of Seth. I mean, Sandy brought me here, but it was only supposed to be for a few days. Seth was the one . . . he convinced his parents to let me stay. So I feel like . . . I've never had the right to be mad at him. No matter what. Like I'm the one who's been wrong from the very beginning. Like anything he took from me . . . it was his in the first place."

"Ryan! That's . . . twisted. And it's not true," Lindsay argued.

"Yeah, it is," Ryan insisted. "This is his home, his family, and he just shared them, no questions asked. Besides, it's Seth, so it's hard to stay mad at him anyway. You know? But I can't help it, I just . . . don't feel like he's really my friend anymore. Like I can trust him the way I used to . . ."

Lindsay nodded. Her fingers rubbed Ryan's arm, soothing, keeping him tethered to her. "I know that," she said. "Seth does too."

"But the thing is, Lindsay," Ryan began. He stopped, gathered his voice, and finished hoarsely, "the way are between us now . . . I don't see how I can stay in his house anymore. If Seth and I aren't friends, I really don't belong here."

-


	9. Chapter 8

To all the readers who have given such great feedback, thanks and ever thanks. Your thoughts are much appreciated.

Standard disclaimer, all errors mine, etc.

**Chapter 8**

"Why are we doing this again?" Seth sighed, slumping into his chair at the table.

Summer's surprise visit had left him hopeful and exhilarated, but the moment he started downstairs for dinner, those feelings evaporated. The atmosphere in the house still vibrated with the same tension that had spoiled every meal since Ryan came home.

Maybe, Seth thought, these gatherings couldn't even legitimately be called meals. He was pretty sure the word implied some sort of genuine nourishment, but very little food was actually eaten at the Cohen table, and most of that promptly turned into acid.

Nothing healthy about these dinners.

It was a wonder they hadn't all developed ulcers already.

"Because families should eat together. It helps them reconnect," Kirsten replied wearily. "Sit up straight, Seth. . . Your father and I read an article . . ."

"Oh, an article. Why didn't you say so? If it was in an article . . ."

"Enough, Seth," Sandy warned as he took his seat. "Of course, if you'd rather just gnaw crackers in your room . . ."

"Is that an option?"

"No," Kirsten said quickly. "It's not." She looked up as Ryan entered the room, noting with relief that he seemed to be moving more easily. "Hi, sweetie. Isn't Lindsay joining us? I thought she was going to stay for dinner tonight."

Ryan shook his head. He angled himself for the awkward descent into his chair and answered vaguely, "No. She and her mom . . .". The explanation hung in the air, unfinished.

Lindsay had offered to stay. She claimed she wanted to be there when Ryan talked to the Cohens, and he would have welcomed her support, but Ryan sent her home anyway. He kept picturing the raw fear in her eyes when she had pushed him away in the bedroom, feeling the way her hands shook when she touched him. She might deny it, but he knew she was hurt, and subjecting her to the strain of this dinner-that would just be another kind of assault.

Ryan couldn't chance wounding her again.

The fucking hostility between him and Seth had already claimed enough victims. What was the term they used on the news? Collateral damage.

Innocents destroyed.

It had to stop.

He had to stop it.

Kirsten frowned slightly, worried by the haunted expression on Ryan's face, but she decided it wasn't the best time to press the issue. "All right . . . Well, you have a choice of entrees tonight, boys. Barbecued ribs or chicken."

"Or both," Sandy declared, heaping his plate. "Both works for me . . . So, honey, how was your day?"

Seth covered his mouth with his napkin. "Dinner at the Cohens," he mumbled into the cloth. "A Sandy Cohen Production. Act I. Small Talk."

Sandy saw Ryan's eyes flash in Seth's direction, but he couldn't read the look they exchanged. "Did you say something, son?" he asked.

"What, me? No, just . . . something in my throat, that's all." Seth took a hurried gulp of water. "So, Mom, how was your day?"

"Productive," Kirsten said, passing the salad. "I finished the paperwork for the Halstead project. Of course, Julie called with a new crisis every ten minutes."

"Julie **_is_** a new crisis every ten minutes," Sandy snarked. "What now?"

"Oh, the re-launch party for the Newport Group tomorrow. Problems with the flowers, problems with the caterers, problems with the musicians. Julie even had a meltdown because her regular manicurist was out ill. People might notice that her nails weren't perfect . . . By the way, boys, your suits are back from the cleaners. Ryan, I don't know what I was thinking. I automatically had Rosa take yours out to the pool house. I'll bring it in for you tomorrow."

Ryan and Seth stared at her, equally startled.

"Mom, that party's at Palace Nichols. With, like, everybody there. You weren't really expecting us to go? Besides I can't. I mean, I'm still grounded, right?" Seth's voice was hopeful.

Ryan ducked his head to indicate the sling and brace he was wearing. "Kirsten, I don't really think I should . . ."

"All right, both of you, stop it right there." Sandy held up his breadstick for emphasis, but he made his tone light and teasing. "Trying to use punishment and injuries to get out of going to this party. Have you no shame? If your mother and I have to suffer through an evening with Caleb, Julie and the entire Newpsie contingent on behalf of family business, then you're going too. The whole family should be represented."

"We're lifting your punishment, Seth. For the evening," Kirsten explained.

Seth rolled his eyes, mocking, "You mean you just upped the punishment several notches on the "Suffer, Seth" scale."

"Stop whining, young man. Now," Kirsten ordered. "And Ryan, I know you don't get along very well with Caleb and Julie . . ." She paused, half-hoping Seth and Ryan would share a sarcastic comment, or at least an "understatement of the year" eye roll, but they didn't. "By now, though, you must be suffering from cabin fever." Kirsten's gaze darted to Sandy uncertainly and he nodded, encouraging her. "It will do you good to get out for a while, as long as we keep the evening short."

Ryan swallowed his own protest, deciding he'd rather not have a "Stop whining," comment aimed at him.

Sandy smiled, "Besides," he reminded the boys, "we might get round two of the Kirstenator vs. the Gruesome Twosome. You wouldn't want to miss that."

"Sandy! No one in this family is going to make a scene at that party tomorrow. Is that clear?"

"Oh, don't tell us, honey. You're the one we're worried about . . . Or proud of. I'm not quite sure which."

Kirsten ran her finger around the rim of her wine glass. "I do wish we were having the party here, though," she mused. "It would just make it all . . . easier."

Ryan caught Sandy's frown, and realized that he'd noticed it too: Kirsten's increasing reluctance to leave her own home.

"Easier?" Sandy scoffed. "At least if we're guests, we can leave. If the party were here, we'd have to be charming hosts until everyone else goes home. And some people never go home. Remember three years ago, honey, that guy McHolland and his wife? Didn't they stay the whole weekend, and then drive Seth to school on Monday when they finally left?"

"That did not happen," Kirsten protested. "Ryan, Sandy's exaggerating. The McHollands were very nice people . . . Although I do seem to remember serving them lunch the next day."

"Well, at least for this party, Ryan can give us an excuse to leave early. I'm sure your knee will start aching around nine o'clock, right Ryan?" Sandy prompted. "Earlier if the food is no good."

"Based on the food at grandpa's last party? We'll be out of there by seven," Seth predicted. "And yeah, I know, the party starts at seven."

Sandy laughed, then continued thoughtfully, "Speaking of your knee, Ryan, you start rehab on Monday, don't you?"

Ryan nodded, saw Sandy raise his eyebrows and remembered that he was supposed to participate verbally in the conversation. "Yeah. The clinic set up a schedule."

"Right. They faxed it over to us," Sandy said. He glanced at Kirsten, who bit her lip anxiously. "You know, though, the court date for the Neeper case has been moved up. That means I'm going to have to put in some really late hours at the office for the next week or so. I won't be able to take you to your sessions the way we planned."

Seth looked up, suddenly suspicious. He knew his father's priorities, and they didn't include work before family.

"Okay," Ryan said slowly. "So, Kirsten . . ."

"Kirsten can't either," Sandy interjected. "We thought Seth could take you."

Seth pitched his voice low. "Really not a good idea, Dad."

"Sure it is," Sandy insisted. "You don't have anything going on after school since you're grounded, so you could drive Ryan there and back, do your homework while he does his exercises . . . Perfect solution."

"Yeah, only not. I won't have homework next week, Dad. Or school. Spring break, remember?"

"Fine," Sandy snapped. "Then you can read. Ride the stationary bike. Sit and twiddle your thumbs, for all I care—"

"Dad? Don't say 'twiddle'."

"And don't you try to get out of this. Ryan needs somebody to drive him to the clinic. Congratulations, son. You just got the job."

"Mom?" Seth appealed.

"Maybe the clinic could change the schedule," Ryan suggested at the same time.

"There's no need for that," Sandy said firmly. "Seth is available, and he's going to do it. Any objections? From either of you?" Both boys looked down, but not at each other. "I didn't think so . . . What's for dessert tonight, honey? I am in a cheesecake kind of mood."

"Um, Dad," Seth said warily. "Look, I'm not trying to get out of work or . . . helping Ryan." Sandy glared at him and Seth insisted, "I'm not. But he doesn't want my company. You know he doesn't. And forcing us to spend time together . . . that's not going to work."

"Your father thinks . . . we think . . . it will give you boys a chance to talk," Kirsten explained. "Avoiding each other isn't helping."

"Yeah, well this Driving Miss Daisy routine won't solve the problem either. You take Ryan to rehab, Mom," Seth urged.

Kirsten flushed. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table. "I can't."

"And you can, Seth," Sandy insisted. "And that's all there is to it."

"Nobody has to take me," Ryan muttered. "Shit, I feel like a load of garbage somebody has to drag out to the curb before it stinks up the whole house."

"Ryan!" Kirsten cried. "Nobody meant it that way . . . Sandy and I are just trying to help you and Seth work things out."

"I know." Ryan gave an apologetic shrug and averted his gaze. "I know that's what you're trying to do. But it still makes me feel like shit. Look, I can take a cab to and from rehab. Or . . . Lindsay will take me." He faltered briefly when he said her name, but then roused himself. "And the rest of it . . . well, I think maybe I have a solution." Ryan crossed his arms over his chest, wincing slightly at the pressure on his shoulder. "I've been thinking, ever since I got back from the hospital . . . There's something I could do," he said slowly. "You'd have to help me, Sandy."

Sandy nodded, cautious. "All right. Tell me."

"All this tension . . . It's not fair to you, to your family . . . Nobody's happy, nothing's normal around here anymore." Ryan's voice wavered, and he stopped for a moment to steady it. "So I was thinking . . . I'll be eighteen in a few months . . . and then this . . . you know, the guardianship . . . it's over anyway."

Kirsten dropped her spoon. "No, Ryan, please" she gasped, but he continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"We could go to court, Sandy, have me declared an emancipated minor . . . I'm not on probation anymore, so it's no big deal . . . and I could get an apartment . . . you know, like Alex did . . . I still have some money left from last summer, and once my leg is healed I can get another job . . ."

"Ryan," Sandy said, measuring his words carefully. "You don't want this."

Ryan looked up, his eyes meeting first Kirsten's and then Sandy's, but avoiding Seth's entirely. "I appreciate everything you've done for me. All of you. I do. It's more than I could every repay . . . But if I leave, your family can get back to normal." He took a deep breath and finished resolutely. "Yes, Sandy, Kirsten. This is what I want."

Seth pushed back from the table in disgust. "Way to solve the problem, Atwood. Cut and run. Man, you really don't fight for anything anymore, do you?"

Ryan's eyes flashed, but before he could respond Kirsten suddenly snapped, "Seth! Be quiet. Now!"

Both boys stared at her, shocked, and Kirsten clutched the stem of her wine glass. "You aren't helping, sweetie," she said, more quietly. "Just once, please, think before you open your mouth."

Sandy stood up. "Your mother's right, Seth. We have pretty much let you get away with saying anything you want in this house. Well, that ends now. I don't care how angry you are, I expect you to respect every member of this family."

He turned his attention to the other side of the table, where Ryan sat, head bowed, fingers tensely clutching his silverware. "And Ryan, hear this. You belong with us. What's happened between you and Seth doesn't change that. When you're eighteen, you can make your own decisions, and if you still want to leave then, I suppose we can't stop you." Kirsten made a small, choking sound and Sandy paused to rub his own brow wearily before resuming. "But until then, I am not going to help you leave. I am not going to allow you to leave. I made that mistake once. It is not happening again."

"Well then what do you want me to do?" Ryan demanded. His voice was low and strained. "You and Sandy have been arguing . . . Seth never comes out of his room . . . Your family is falling apart, and I don't know how else to fix it. . ."

"Maybe you could try forgiving me," Seth said bitterly. "Is that so damn hard? Or do you just enjoy carrying a grudge?"

Ryan turned to him in disbelief. "That's what you think I'm doing? You think I enjoy any of this?"

"Boys . . ." Sandy warned, but Kirsten shook her head and gestured for him to stop.

"We don't expect you to fix everything, sweetie," Kirsten assured Ryan. Her voice was careful, deliberate, like hands working to defuse a ticking bomb. "That's not your responsibility . . . at least not yours alone." She glanced pointedly at Seth before adding, "And I want you to listen to me, Ryan. This is your family too. You leaving will not make things better. Not for any of us. We know that from experience . . . Promise me that you won't."

Ryan sucked in his breath.

"Promise," Kirsten said, her tone an order and a plea.

He nodded, his eyes shielded by his lashes.

"Ryan . . ." Kirsten reached across the table, covered his hand with hers. "I need to hear you say it."

His gaze flickered briefly up and then back down as he forced the words out. "I promise."

Sandy rubbed his eyes again for a moment and then looked steadily around the table.

"All right then. This is what we are going to do. We are all going to go, together, to the damn Newport Group re-launch party tomorrow . . ."

Seth raised a hand, ready to object, but Sandy silenced him with a glance.

"Don't say it, son. I know . . . We all know. Newport parties aren't exactly bonding experiences. And I can't force you to have a good time. Hell, it's a party at Julie and Caleb's house. We definitely won't have a good time, but we are going to go . . . as a family," he declared. "Then starting Monday, Seth, you are going to drive Ryan to his rehab sessions. And just to make it clear, Ryan, I expect you in the car with him, not riding on top of the hood. And then . . . then we'll try to figure out what to do next."

He sat back down.

"All right. Let's eat. Honey, would you pass me the corn?"

-

"Shit!" Summer muttered. The knock at her bedroom door had startled her and made her flick nail polish onto her instep. "It's open! Just come in. I've got a pedicure emergency I'm dealing with here!"

Lindsay cracked the door, just wide enough to slip inside. "Thanks. Um . . . what's a pedicure emergency?" she asked sheepishly.

Summer waved her brush in surprise. "Lindsay! Hi . . . Oh, just a glob of Passion Peach where no Passion Peach belongs. Nothing some nail polish remover can't fix. So . . . what brings you?"

"I just . . . I . . . um . . ." Lindsay's voice trailed off as she looked around the room, her eyes widening.

Summer smiled. "You know, Chino had that exact same expression when he first came here." She wrinkled her nose. "Not exactly overcome with admiration. How can I describe it? Shell-shocked, maybe."

"It's all just so . . . pink," Lindsay murmured. Then she blinked and stammered, "Ryan? Was in your bedroom?"

"Oh, not like that! Please! Last fall, when he and Cohen first came back to Newport, he came here to plead Cohen's case. And Chino, by the way? Definitely not lawyer material, so I hope Sandy doesn't have any follow-in-my-footsteps ideas. About him or Cohen. Anyway, no, there's never been anything between me and Ryan." Summer batted her eyes and added coyly, "Not that I didn't give it my best shot . . . Here, have a pillow. Sit."

Lindsay caught the cushion Summer tossed over and sank to the floor, staring. "Your best shot? But . . . you and Seth . . ."

"Oh, this was pre-Cohen," Summer explained airily. "Pre Ryan and Marissa too. Actually, I think it was Chino's first day in Newport."

"And you . . .?"

"Came on to him. Threw myself at him actually. Or rather, literally. I was drunk. He was hot. Well, you know. Anyway," Summer leaned over to blow on her toes, "Chino was having none of it. Me, I mean. I assume it was his loyalty to Cohen, because if I thought it was a personal rejection . . .?" She pursed her lips and shook her head gravely.

"No, I'm sure it wasn't . . . I mean . . ." Lindsay stopped, completely confused by the conversation.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Lindsay! Relax. Really. You shouldn't take everything so seriously," Summer urged. "It was a two-minute encounter, max. It never even made it into my diary . . . Can I get you anything? Water? Soda? I mean, if you're willing to wait until my polish dries."

"No. I'm fine. Thanks anyway."

"Okay," Summer said equably. She capped the polish and settled back. "So, you dropping by. This is new. Nice, but pretty much unexpected."

Lindsay flushed. "I should have called."

"Totally not necessary. I'm just thinking . . . maybe this isn't just a casual visit?"

"It . . . isn't really." Lindsay studied her own unadorned fingernails, avoiding Summer's inquisitive gaze. "I just needed . . . well, wanted . . . some advice, and, well, I don't have a lot of friends. I mean, not for this kind of thing . . . And I can't really talk to my mother. Or Kirsten . . ."

Summer nodded sagely. "So it's about Ryan."

Lindsay ducked her head in assent.

"What did he do?"

Lindsay's blush deepened painfully. "He didn't really . . . I mean, he did, but . . . God, Summer, this is totally embarrassing. Maybe I should just go . . . I could probably find a book. There must be one . . ."

"Hey, Lindsay, there are millions of books, but I'm right here. Talk. Nothing leaves this room, promise." Summer mimed locking her lips. "I won't even say anything to Marissa. Especially not to Marissa. Here . . . long distance pinkie swear, in case my polish is still tacky." She crooked her little finger, held it in the air until Lindsay, looking puzzled, returned the gesture. "Now go ahead. Tell me."

"Okay," Lindsay said slowly. She chewed her lip, considering how to phrase her questions. "Well, before Ryan, I wasn't very . . . experienced. And I know he . . ."

"Was," Summer finished. "Go on."

Lindsay pulled strands of hair in front of her face, using them as a veil. "Right. He was. And that was all right, really. I mean, it wasn't a problem. Ryan's always been very . . . considerate, and . . . patient. It's just that now . . . I think he wants . . . more."

Summer sat up straight. "Lindsay, if you are not ready for sex, you need to tell Chino. No matter what he wants. Honestly, if he likes you, he'll wait. He'll complain a lot, of course, but . . ."

"It's not that," Lindsay whispered. "I mean . . . we've already made love."

"Oh. Then . . . Oh!" Summer's eyes widened with comprehension. "He wants to try new things. Kinky things? Lindsay, you absolutely should not do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Although I have to say, certain things are a lot more fun than you'd expect."

Summer watched, amazed, as Lindsay's skin burned yet another intense shade of red.

"That's not it either, Summer. Oh, God, I don't know how to say this." Lindsay pulled another pillow off the floor, clutched it in front of her and took a deep breath. "All right. You know the last few weeks have been really hard on Ryan. He was worried about applying for the internship . . . and then there was the fight with Seth, and the accident. And then . . . well, everything just snowballed, and it's all gotten worse and worse."

"And worse. Yeah, I know," Summer agreed. "For Cohen too."

Lindsay nodded. "Anyway, this afternoon Ryan and I were . . . together . . . for the first time since everything happened. And it was fine, for a little while. It was wonderful. But then it got . . . Ryan got . . ."

Lindsay squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingers instinctively moved to touch the bruise behind her ear. "He was really rough," she finished weakly. "It's like he had all this energy and . . . feelings . . . ugly ones . . . that he was trying to get out. I didn't know how to handle it."

"What did you do?" Summer asked gently.

"I told him to stop."

"Did he?"

"Yes!" Lindsay's eyes snapped open. "Of course he did. Summer, you can't think Ryan would . . . He would never do that." Lindsay scrambled to her feet. "I wouldn't have said anything if I believed you would think . . ."

Summer jumped up, blocking the door before Lindsay could leave. "No, no, it's okay, Lindsay, wait. I know Chino's not like that. It's just that you're so upset . . ."

"Because it feels like he needs something from me, Summer. And I want to help him. I do. But I don't know how."

Summer pulled Lindsay back into the room and handed her a tissue. "Now see, that I completely understand. Because I feel the same way about Cohen, and we're not even together anymore." She shook her head ruefully. "They're idiots, both of them. Stubborn, proud, clueless . . . boys."

Summer bit off the last word with fond contempt and Lindsay laughed shakily.

"They really are, aren't they?" she agreed.

"Absolutely. That's why they need us and our superior wisdom." Summer settled back onto the floor, returned Lindsay's pillow, and gestured for her to sit.

"Then you know what I should do? What we can do to help them?" Lindsay asked hopefully.

"No idea," Summer confessed. "But Lindsay, you have super intelligence and sensitivity. I have cunning and intuition and—" she reached into a drawer and pulled out a box—"a secret hoard of chocolate. Between the two of us, we will figure it out."

-

Seth paused outside Ryan's room, debating. He lifted his hand to the door frame, made a fist, stared at it, crammed it into his pocket, turned on his heel, pivoted back, tapped a silent drum beat against his leg, made an about face, hesitated, swiveled to the door again, and finally raised his hand ready to knock.

"I can see you, you know," Ryan said. "The door is open."

Seth swallowed. The door was open, but Ryan was lying on his bed, a book propped on his chest, hiding his face, and Seth thought his dance of doubt had gone unnoticed.

"Yeah, well, yeah, it is," he stammered. "So that must have looked . . ."

"Weird," Ryan offered, letting the book fall closed.

"Weird," Seth agreed. "So . . ." He gulped in a lungful of oxygen, expended it all in a rush of words. "I just wanted to apologize. For what I said at dinner. 'Cause I figured, hey, you need another apology for your collection, right? This one is what? Issue 10, volume 50? A Cohen classic edition."

Ryan bit his lip, pushed himself to an upright position.

"You meant what you said, Seth. You were pissed at me. You've been pissed at me a lot lately."

"No, I . . ."

"Yes," Ryan insisted. "You were."

"Maybe not so much pissed as . . . all right. Yeah. Fine." Seth lifted his chin, ready for the challenge. "I was."

"It's okay, Seth," Ryan said, and Seth exhaled audibly. "You were right. I mean, about a couple things anyway. Like . . . I should have let you tell your parents what happened. If it helps, they know that you wanted to." The words came out reluctantly, almost painfully. "And they know that you offered to try to get me another interview, and that I said not to bother."

"Okay," Seth said slowly. "Okay, so they know that. Good."

"And then today . . ."

"Well, yeah today, Ryan. Right. I was pissed. Because you were talking about leaving, like it meant nothing to you. But I shouldn't have jumped down your throat that way. Because, shit, dude, I can totally understand if you don't want to live here anymore. I mean, why wouldn't you want to get away from me? If I could, I'd fucking move away from me too. But that's pretty much impossible in our current dimension, so I'm sort of stuck with myself. . ."

Seth waved his hands as if he were searching for a rift in the time/space continuum, and Ryan raised his eyebrows, looking faintly amused.

Encouraged, Seth continued, "Anyway, like Mom said, Ryan, nobody wants you to leave. Nobody wants you to **_want_** to leave. So, if you could maybe just erase what I said. . ."

He stopped, appalled. "Okay, really, really, really bad figure of speech there. Way to reopen not-so-old wounds. Mom's right. I've so got to learn to think before my mouth starts moving. Ryan, man, I am so . . ."

"Seth, just let it go, okay? I don't want to hear it."

"Hear what?"

"'Sorry.' Isn't that what you were going to say?"

Seth nodded.

"Okay, I get that, Seth. I know that you wish none of this had ever happened."

"So . . .?" Seth asked.

"It's just the word. 'Sorry.' I've heard it from too many people. My mom, Trey, Marissa. Hell, even my dad. 'Sorry' doesn't mean shit. And yeah, I know, I say it all the time. Enough to know that sorry's just a word. It's always too fucking late, and it doesn't fix anything." Ryan shifted to the edge of the bed, wincing a little. "I never expected to hear it from you," he added softly. "Hell, I never expected to have to say it to you."

There was a moment of silence. Ryan picked up his book and set it on top of three others already on the nightstand, aligning their edges so that the pile was precisely in order. Seth watched him, wondering if the conversation was over and he should offer to leave. Instead he heard himself ask, "You still want to, though, don't you? Leave, I mean. You're just here to make Mom and Dad happy."

"They're not happy, Seth. And I never wanted to leave."

"Then why is it so hard for you to just forgive me?"

Ryan's gaze slid past Seth and fixed on a spot somewhere out the window. "I don't know. Why was it so hard for you to forgive me? For going back to Chino with Theresa last summer?"

Seth felt blindsided. The impact left him breathless and he sagged against the side of the desk.

"You didn't speak to me for three months," Ryan recalled tonelessly. "I told you I wanted you to visit, your parents kept in touch, but you just wrote me off. Hell, if I hadn't come out to Portland, you probably still wouldn't be talking to me." He added, half under his breath, "Talk about cutting and running."

"Ryan," Seth stammered. "I thought we got past all that. I mean, when Theresa called . . . and we both decided to come home . . ."

"You thought losing the baby canceled out everything that happened? Theresa miscarrying . . . that just made it all for nothing." Ryan clenched his fist, rubbing his knuckles with his other hand. "Last summer was hard. It was fucking hard, Seth. I really could have used a friend."

"God, Ryan," Seth breathed. "I don't know what to tell you. Being a friend—before you got here, I never had much practice, and I'm beginning to think I just majorly suck at it." Ryan shook his head slightly, but Seth insisted, "No. You're right. I should have been there for you, man. And I am really, really . . ."

Ryan darted a sideways glare at him.

"Really . . . the word you don't want me to use," Seth finished weakly.

Ryan gave a grim nod.

"Okay. Yeah, okay. You know, I'm sort of all about the words, but that one? Out of the dictionary completely." Ryan's lips twitched, almost, but not quite, into a half-smile and Seth went on, "But, dude, I want you to know, despite my illustrious career, I am officially retiring from the asshole business. Really. No severance pay, no stock options, no golden parachute. Nothing. So if you see me setting up shop again, like, say, opening my mouth too often, or making everything all about me, feel free to unleash those fists of fury . . ."

He stopped suddenly as Ryan swung himself out of bed and strapped on his brace.

"Um, dude," Seth said nervously. "What are you doing? 'Cause if it involves hitting, I was going for a metaphor. I really didn't mean . . ."

Ryan grabbed his hoodie. "You're in my way, Seth."

"In your way," Seth parroted. "Ryan, where are you going? It's, like, the middle of the night. You can't go anywhere. In case I wasn't clear, that was the whole point of this conversation, you not going."

"Yeah, I know. I heard you, Seth." To Seth's relief, Ryan sounded very tired, but not upset. "I'm just sick of being inside here . . . these walls. I need to think. I can't do it in this room."

"So you're just going . . .?"

"Outside. By the pool."

"Okay. Outside. By the pool. To think."

"Yeah. Just to think."

"And then you'll be back."

"Then I'll be back."

Seth nodded. "Okay, then. I'll just get out of your way and let you do that. Because I'm guessing, maybe that's what a friend would do at this point."

"Yeah," Ryan agreed. "That's what a friend would do."

Seth stepped to one side, watched Ryan make his way out of the house, and then loped up the stairs to his room. From his window, he could see the whole pool area. It wasn't, he assured himself, that he didn't believe Ryan, but Seth figured that it was a beautiful, clear night, and he was too wired to sleep anyway. He might as well sit for a while, maybe do some stargazing and some thinking of his own.

Just until Ryan came back inside.

TBC


	10. Chapter 9

Don't own the characters, don't even rent or lease.

I do, however, appreciate all the feedback.

Collision Course Chapter 9 

Something woke Sandy, some whisper of sound or movement, and he rolled over, automatically reaching for Kirsten. Her side of the bed was empty, and the sheets were cool to his touch. Alarmed, he sat up. In the thin darkness, he could see her standing motionless in front of the window, her arms hanging by her sides.

"Kirsten?"

Sandy padded over. His arms circled her, pulling her back against his chest. He hoped that he was just imagining how frail she felt, how very breakable.

"Honey, are you okay?"

Ever since the accident she had woken, almost nightly, reliving images of the crash. She never screamed, just gasped, flinging herself upright, her eyes wide open but blind to the familiar comfort of her bedroom, fixed with fear and horror on her own memories. Sandy felt her the instant she stirred, the way he used to when Seth was a baby and she would get up to feed him, or just to check that he was safe and snug and breathing. Only then, they would share tired, contented smiles over the downy head of their son, nestled in Kirsten's arms, or sprawled flat in his crib. Now, Sandy would draw his wife's rigid body to him, but it would take long minutes before Kirsten would relax or even acknowledge his presence.

"Sweetheart," he would croon. "It's all right. Ryan's all right, he's fine, everything's fine. You've got to let it go, okay? It wasn't your fault."

Sandy wished that he could offer Kirsten proof. He wished that everything at least appeared fine. Ryan obviously chafed at his continued need to use the crutch and brace and sling, but Sandy suspected that he was just as eager for those ugly supports to be gone. They were visible reminders of all the hurt, physical and emotional, that his family had endured.

Maybe when Ryan looked fully recovered, it would be easier for them all to heal.

"Kirsten?" Sandy prompted, when she didn't respond. "Nightmare again?" She felt cold, and he rubbed his hands up and down her arms, trying to kindle some answering warmth in her body.

"Hmm?" Kirsten roused and shook her head. "No. No, I just couldn't sleep. Look, Sandy. Ryan's out there, see, sitting by the pool. He's been there for at least half an hour. Don't you think one of us should go . . .?"

Sandy wrapped his arms tighter, rubbed his chin against the top of Kirsten's head. "No, honey, I don't. It's Ryan. You can't smother him. You just have to wait for him to come to us."

"Unless he decides to leave us first," Kirsten murmured.

"He won't," Sandy assured her. "He told you he wouldn't. And I can't imagine Ryan ever breaking a promise to you, sweetheart. Now come on back to bed, okay?"

Kirsten followed him obediently and let Sandy tuck her in like a child. She nestled close, sighing against his chest. "I hope I wasn't wrong to make him promise," she whispered. "I hope he doesn't feel like I trapped him here . . . And Seth . . . God, Sandy, he's so angry and hurt and guilty. I don't even know what to hope for him. I just want . . . so much . . . for both our boys . . . So much . . ."

"I know," Sandy said. "Me too."

He held her until they both fell asleep.

-

Ryan stretched out in one of chaise lounges by the pool, his forearm covering his eyes as if to block out the nonexistent light. He could hear tiny, soothing sounds—crickets, a faint murmur of leaves, the distant call of some night bird. Gradually, he let himself relax, and his mind, released from the braided strain of worry, anger and doubt, drifted. It took him, unbidden, to an afternoon about three weeks earlier.

_Seth and Ryan had been playing video games, so engrossed with the action on the screen that they didn't notice when Sandy and Kirsten walked into the living room._

"_All right, boys. Game over. It's quality family time," Sandy announced, clapping his hands. Simultaneously, Kirsten took Seth's video controller and, ignoring his yelp of protest, efficiently killed his player._

"_You two have been impossible ever since your anniversary," Seth complained. He leaned back into the cushions of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, mouth upended in a pout. "Meaningful conversations. Family time. Red state values. Did I teach you nothing?" He shook his head sadly and turned to Ryan. "All those years I spent training them, gone to waste."_

_Ryan grinned and Seth added, "Oh yes, you smile, suck-up. You're just happy because it was my guy Mom destroyed."_

"_That? You should be grateful. That was a mercy killing. You were going down, Seth." _

_Ryan spun off the couch and ducked behind Sandy as Seth heaved a pillow at him. It fell a foot short. Sandy sighed, picking it up. "My son, the athlete. And by the way, Seth, there is nothing wrong with certain red state values."_

"_Better not let the Nana hear you say that," Seth warned._

_Ryan tossed the pillow back to Seth, who caught it and made a "See that!" face at his father. "So, did you guys pick out a movie?" Ryan asked. "Should I make popcorn?"_

"_Actually," Kirsten replied, "I'm not in the mood for a movie today."_

"_She means she's not sleepy," Sandy interjected._

"_I do not fall asleep every time," Kirsten objected. Sandy, Ryan and Seth exchanged glances and she repeated, "I do not! Stop that, all of you. I just thought we could do something different this afternoon. Play a game maybe."_

"_Mom, not to point out the obvious," Seth said in a patient, explaining-to-a-four-year-old tone, "but Ryan and I were already playing a game."_

"_Not with us," Kirsten said._

"_Not with us," Sandy echoed._

"_Okay, fine. One of you can have next," Seth suggested, trying to reclaim his controller. "You can take the loser's spot. That, by the way, would be Ryan's."_

_Ryan took the controller from Kirsten's hand and passed it to Sandy as Seth lunged for it. "I don't think that's what your mom has in mind, Seth. And it would be your spot anyway."_

"_Hey, kid, back at you!" Sandy called, lofting the controller back into Ryan's waiting hands._

"_Playing keep-away. Real adult, Dad. Ryan, come on, you're supposed to be on my side. Gimme," Seth pleaded._

_Ryan looked at him innocently. "Oh, you wanted this?" he asked. "I'm sorry, Seth. Here you go." He held out the controller, feinted left, dove right, and handed it to Kirsten with a slight bow._

"_Okay, Ryan, you? Are violating every bylaw in the brother-slash-friend-slash-us-against-the-parents rulebook. I'd fire you as sergeant-at-arms except that would mean I'd have to hold all the offices." Seth plopped back onto the couch, assuming his I-am-sulking face._

_Kirsten pulled Ryan into a one-armed hug and ruffled his hair. "It is so nice to have one son who understands me. And for your information, Mr. Playstation, I was thinking more of a game where you actually look at the people you're with and not at a TV screen."_

"_Ryan and I are not playing Truth or Dare with you guys, Mom."_

"_Truth or Dare," Sandy mused, nodding. "That is an idea. We might learn a lot, honey."_

_Ryan's eyes widened and he pulled away from Kirsten, shaking his head violently. Seth choked._

"_Of course, they could learn a few things about us too, so maybe not," Sandy concluded with a meaningful wink at Kirsten. "Better to preserve the mystery, sweetheart."_

_Both boys sighed in relief. Then Seth sat up, suddenly suspicious. "Wait. There are things to learn about you two?" he demanded. "Like what . . .? No, don't answer. I didn't ask. I don't want to know." He cupped his hands over his ears, humming loudly._

_Kirsten ignored him. "We have all those board games in the study closet," she said thoughtfully. "The ones Martin gave you, Seth. We could play one of those."_

"_Martin?" Ryan asked, pulling Seth's hands down so he could hear the question._

"_A guy who worked at the P.D.'s office with Dad," Seth explained. "No real family of his own, so he appointed himself my unofficial uncle. He bought me a different game every year for my birthday."_

"_Yeah? And you kept them all?"_

"_Oh, they're still coming. It was Boggle this year, wasn't it, son?" Sandy recalled._

_Seth rolled his eyes. "Nice guy, Martin, but he has me pegged at twelve."_

"_Twelve, huh?" Ryan pursed his lips, considering. "Seems a little generous. I'd say more, nine and a half."_

"_Stop it you two," Kirsten said automatically, grabbing the pillow Seth was poised to throw again. "You know, we should play one of those games. None of them ever got much use."_

"_Or, like, any," Seth cut in. "Most of them are still in shrink wrap."_

_Kirsten grew more animated as she spoke. "We could play outside on the patio. Eat ice cream sundaes. It'll be fun. You boys don't have anything pressing to do, do you?"_

"_Not . . . pressing," Ryan conceded. Kirsten looked so eager that he couldn't disappoint her. He would reschedule with Lindsay._

"_Well, I was supposed to have that root canal, but hey, sure, this will be more fun that that," Seth scoffed. "A little."_

"_Good. Ryan, Sandy, you help me get the ice cream. Seth, you go pick out a game."_

"_You know," Seth grumbled as Ryan pulled him forcibly to his feet. "There's a reason why they're called board games. People get bored playing them . . . Okay, okay. Stop shoving. Mom! Make him stop shoving. I'm going already."_

_Ten minutes later, Seth came out to the patio carrying a colorful box, and dragging his feet like a condemned man._

"_Don't look so miserable, son," Sandy laughed. "We have mini M Ms for the sundaes. And butterscotch topping and hot fudge and whipped cream and slivered almonds and maraschino cherries."_

_Seth scooped a heaping spoon of hot fudge from the serving bowl, complaining around a mouthful, "You think you can win me over with multiple toppings? Think again, mon pere."_

"_Yeah," Ryan said dryly. "It would only take the cherries."_

"_All right, Atwood. I don't care what we play, you are going to lose, my friend. Big time. See this?" Seth pointed to himself and scowled. "This is my game face. Ha! You feel the terror now, right?"_

"_Ooh, I'm shaking," Ryan mocked. "The hot fudge on your cheek? Really intimidating, bro."_

"_What game did you pick out, Seth?" Kirsten asked. She looked at the box curiously and began to make room on the table to arrange the board._

"_I used the time-honored selection process of closing my eyes and pulling down a box. Oh, and by the way, you may find a few other games on the floor of the closet. They did the Jill-came-tumbling-after thing. Anyway, this one is . . .?"_

"_Cranium," Ryan read. "The game for your whole brain."_

_Sandy rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "Ah, this sounds like my kind of game. An intellectual challenge. Boys, honey, I'm sorry, but I don't think any of you stand a chance against me."_

"_Actually, dad, one of us is going to have to have a chance with you." Seth scanned the directions page over Ryan's shoulder. "The game is played in teams. And I am officially not inviting he-who-ridicules-me to be my partner. But I'll be generous. R.A., you can pick first. Which of the parents do you want on your team?" _

_Ryan looked momentarily dismayed, his eyes darting from Kirsten and Sandy, unwilling to choose between them._

"_Hey, kid," Sandy said gently. "You're just picking a partner for a game, not taking sides in a custody battle. You're not going to offend either one of us."_

_Ryan ducked his head, embarrassed. "Okay, then. Kirsten? Would you be on my team?"_

"_I would love to," Kirsten said, sitting down next to him. She leaned over and whispered confidentially. "Good choice, Ryan. Sandy likes to think he's good at games, but I am much, much better."_

_Sandy slung an arm around Seth's shoulder. "Okay, son. Looks like it's you and me."_

"_Do I have any other choices?" Seth asked. "Rosa, maybe? Captain Oats? That bird over there?"_

"_All right, now? Now I am offended. But you'll see, Seth. With my intellectual prowess and your . . . your . . . your what?" Sandy paused, looking at his son skeptically._

"_Dice-throwing ability?" Ryan suggested._

"_Dice-throwing ability," Sandy agreed. "Between the two of us, we can take them, son. Okay, how do you play this game?"_

"_It looks . . . strange," Kirsten commented, as she unpacked the box._

"_It has clay!" Seth exclaimed happily. "There may be some hope for this afternoon yet." He opened the container and began kneading the purple blob enthusiastically. "Now, Ryan, watch the artist at work. I can, with my incredible skill, turn this ordinary clay into an eel. Or a worm. Or possibly the Alaskan pipeline. I was always the best in my kindergarten class with Play-Doh. Just ask Mom."_

"_Oh yes, he was. He ate the most," Kirsten recalled. "Put that away, Seth. It's for us all to use . . . somehow. And if you're hungry, eat your ice cream. Yours, please. That's mine."_

_Kirsten pulled her bowl out of Seth's reach and she and Ryan both looked dubiously at the boxes of cards as they set them on the table._

"_Creative Cat," Ryan read. "Word Worm. Data Head. Star Performer . . . Seth, how old did you say that guy thought you were? Maybe we could just play cards. Gin rummy? Hearts? Texas Hold'Em?"_

"_A card game might be a better choice," Kirsten agreed. "This looks a little . . . silly."_

_Seth picked up one of the cards. "I don't know, Mom. I like to think of myself as a very Creative Cat. In fact, that may be the caption under my yearbook picture next spring."_

"_The censored version anyway," Ryan murmured._

"_Hey! I heard that, Atwood. Deny it all you want, you clearly fear the superior imagination that is Seth Cohen . . . Dad, what do you think? Should we play this? Because in my opinion card games? Only interesting if they involve money changing hands . . ." He looked hopefully at his parents._

"_Not happening, Seth," Kirsten declared._

"_Right. Or clothes coming off. Which, considering the present company, I am now so, so, so sorry that I even mentioned."_

"_We're all sorry about that, son," Sandy groaned. "I think we better stick with what we have. Besides, that Star Performer box? That sounds promising. Maybe I'll get a chance to sing."_

_Seth raised his hand. "Mr. Chairman? I'd like to change my vote."_

"_The chair does not recognize the representative from Outer Sethland," Ryan replied, waving him down. "Kirsten? This game deal was your idea. What do you want to do?"_

_Kirsten's eyes circled the table. "I just want to enjoy a beautiful afternoon in the company of my guys," she said, smiling at each of them in turn. "Yes, let's play."_

_So they had. There had been laughter, humming (to Sandy's chagrin, "Star Performers" weren't allowed to actually sing), clumsy charades, indecipherable drawings, shapeless sculptures, heated arguments about the definitions of words, and more laughter. _

_When the game ended, Kirsten pulled Ryan to his feet, holding his hand aloft in triumph. _

"_Losers clear the table and do the dishes," she declared. "Winners get extra ice cream."_

"_Wait! Is that in the rulebook?" Seth asked, scanning the directions. "Yeah, no, I didn't think so. Anyway this game is not officially over. I'm staging a formal protest. Dad and I were robbed."_

"_Face it, man," Ryan said smugly. "You lost to superior talent, that's all."_

_Seth dumped the Word Worm box, scattering its contents over the table. "Where is that card? 'Boreal?' I want to see that definition."_

"_Stop making a mess, sweetie. I told you, it's a temperate climate. Boreal doesn't mean tedious." Kirsten slapped his hand lightly and attempted to shuffle the cards back together._

"_Well, it so should. As in," Seth explained, "this game is so boreal that we will never play it again." He found the card, read it, scowled, and flung it back down. "Temperate climate. Fine, whatever. Only, wait, the game isn't officially over until . . . until you guys run a victory lap around the pool."_

_Kirsten promptly sat down. "Seth, I am not running around the pool."_

"_Oh, I am." Ryan looked at Seth and grinned wickedly. "On three, Seth. One, two . . ."_

"_Dad!" Seth yelped, taking off as Ryan charged after him. "A little help here!"_

_Sandy got up, sighing. "Son," he drawled, "I'm sorry to do this to you but . . . I think I'd rather be on the winning side this time." He signaled Ryan to turn and then ran to cut Seth off in the other direction while Kirsten laughed and clapped. Trapped between the two of them, Seth looked around frantically. Then he threw up his hands in defeat, kicked off his shoes, held his nose and jumped into the water to escape._

"_You are such a traitor, Dad!" Seth spluttered as he surfaced. He climbed out of the pool, wringing out his t-shirt. "First Ryan, now you. And you too, Mom! Cheering them on! I'm revoking your memberships in Team Seth. All of you. Trust me," he added with an attempt at dignity as he sloshed toward the house, "you will rue this day."_

_Sandy slung an arm around Ryan's shoulder. "So?" he asked. "What do you say? Did I earn extra ice cream?" _

_Ryan nodded, smiling into the waning light. "Oh yeah," he said warmly. "Two scoops at least."_

Ryan felt himself smile again, recalling that afternoon. Then he sat up, searching his memory. He tried, but Ryan couldn't remember the Atwood family ever enjoying a day like that, even before his father had been arrested. They never played games together, or even just shared the same space, relaxed in each other's company. On the best of days, the ones when his parents were both sober, his father had just collected a paycheck, there was food in the refrigerator, and Trey was in protective big-brother mode, Ryan had still sensed danger. It was as though they were all walking on ice. He knew if they were careless, moved too fast or hard, or took one step too far, the thin shell below them would break and send them all plunging beneath the surface.

It was so different with the Cohens. That Saturday, they had spent three silly, comfortable, idyllic hours together. It hadn't even been a special occasion-just a perfectly ordinary, extraordinarily perfect, afternoon. And Ryan had taken it for granted. Maybe he had been stupid, or spoiled, but he hadn't realized that he should savor it while it lasted. Now the moment was gone, and it was too late.

Ryan turned in his chair, looking back wistfully at the dark, closed Cohen house.

He wondered: how was it possible to be homesick when you were at home?

How could you miss people that you saw every day?

-

Seth had forgotten how late it was until he heard Summer's sleep-husky voice on the other end of the phone.

"This had better be a wrong number or an absolute emergency," she warned. "Because if it's anybody I know and you don't need an ambulance, you will pay for waking me up."

"Summer? It's, um, Seth."

"Great. Cohen," she groaned. "Somebody I know **_and_** a wrong number all in one phone call. All right, what is so important that you had to call me at—what time is it anyway?"

"Let's see. Looks like . . . 2:37."

"2:37."

"In the morning," Seth added helpfully.

"In. The. Morning. If I have dark circles under my eyes tomorrow, Cohen, you will be five different kinds of dead. I didn't even take after-midnight calls from you when we were going together." Summer sighed and wedged the phone under her ear as she rolled onto her back. "Okay, I'm awake. Sort of. Talk. But make it fast. You ramble, and I'll reach through the wires and pull out your tonsils."

"Okay, but Summer? I had my tonsils out when I was six."

"Cohen!"

Seth rubbed his ear, sure that Summer had set a new record decibel level for an un-amped human voice. "Fine. And also, Summer? Ow. So . . . I had a talk with Ryan tonight. Or, yeah, we talked."

"Really? Was anything broken during this talk? Dishes? Windows? Noses?"

"No, see, that's it," Seth said eagerly. "I think maybe . . . well, I can't really say that the Seth-Ryan team is ready to ride again, but us talking, it was . . . almost normal."

Summer laughed. "You were involved in this conversation and it was almost normal? Call Ripley's, Cohen. But go on."

"Okay, so at dinner today Ryan asked dad to go to court and have him declared an emancipated minor so he could live on his own."

"He what?" Summer suddenly sounded much more alert.

"Yeah, my reaction entirely," Seth agreed. "And I called him on it because shit, that idea ranks right up there with Val Kilmer as Batman. Mom and Dad vetoed it anyway, but they sort of hinted—okay, insisted—that my comments weren't helping matters." Summer made a noise that sounded suspiciously and rudely like a snort, but Seth decided to ignore it. "So I apologized."

"And? The clock is ticking here, Cohen."

"And this time Ryan listened. And he pretty much said that he forgave me. Kind of. Maybe. I think. He even sort of apologized—which, by the way, he needed to do, because contrary to popular belief around here, he has not been Mr. Perfecto through this whole business."

"Tick, tick, tick . . . Come on, Cohen. You called me in the middle of the night because you and Ryan made up? That's great. It's all warm and fuzzy and hug-worthy, but couldn't you have saved the news flash until I was, I don't know, awake? Having my morning coffee—that might be a good time."

"Yeah, but no, see, that's just it. We had this conversation, and I get the feeling that we're working things out, or at least starting to, but then Ryan just leaves. He says he has to go outside and think—and that was, like, hours ago, and he's still out there brooding instead of inside sleeping like he should be doing."

"You mean like I should be doing? Like I was doing before a phone call from this crazy person woke me up?"

"Come on, Summer, work with me," Seth cajoled in his best wheedling tone. He smiled, but the effect was lost since Summer couldn't see his dimples over the phone. "What do you suppose Ryan is thinking about?"

This time, Seth was absolutely sure that Summer snorted. "I'm supposed to know what goes on in Chino's head? Cohen, you know him better than anybody else. If you can't figure it out . . ."

"So I should just trust my instincts? Because my instincts tell me that Ryan's going into hide-in-plain-sight mode."

"Now see? I don't even know what that means. And at two—"

"2:43."

"2:43 in the morning, I really don't care." Summer yawned audibly and pulled her comforter higher. "Seth," she urged. "Go to sleep. Give whatever you call your brain a rest. I'll talk to you later—much later—or at your grandfather's party or something. G'night."

"Okay, yeah . . . So you'll be at the party? Great. You know, Summer, you could go with us if you want."

"Cohen! I'm going to the party with Zach. And you know that. Him, boyfriend. You, friend. Remember? Well, friend when you aren't torturing me with middle-of-the-night phone calls. Now. Is there anything else you need to say?" Summer didn't give Seth a chance to answer before she concluded, "I didn't think so. Good night, Cohen." Just before she hung up, Seth thought he heard her groan, "Boys!"

The dial tone humming in his ear told Seth that the conversation was irretrievably over. "Yeah. Good night," he said to nobody and hung up.

When he looked out the window again, he saw with satisfaction that Ryan was going back into the house.

Summer was right. It was time for bed.

-

The ringing of the phone startled Ryan and he groped for it, still half asleep.

"Ryan?" Lindsay sounded completely alert, but edged with anxiety.

He yawned. "Yeah. Lindsay? What time is it?"

"Early. Really early, I guess, but I had to know. Did you talk to the Cohens? Ryan? Did you tell them you want to live on your own? What did they say?"

"They said no." Ryan's voice was husky with sleep and suppressed emotion. "Kirsten and Sandy both . . . they said they wanted me to stay." He dug his fist into the bridge of his nose, remembering how their reactions had made him feel, that nearly incapacitating rush of simultaneous joy and worry, relief and apprehension.

"You see? I told you they would. So you are?" Lindsay prompted. "You're staying, aren't you, Ryan?"

"Yeah. Kirsten . . . she made me promise, so yeah."

"Good." Lindsay sounded as though she had just released a long-held breath. "I do love my new sister. She's very wise, you know." She paused for a moment, then added cautiously. "And what about Seth? What you said about not being able to stay if you weren't friends?"

Ryan ran his hand through his hair, squeezed his eyes closed. "I don't know. We sort of talked last night. I mean, we tried to anyway . . . And Kirsten and Sandy really need for us to work this out. So I'm thinking, I could just pretend none of it ever happened."

"Except it did."

"Except it did." Ryan sighed. "Maybe, I don't know, we sort of have to start all over, Seth and me."

"Could you do that?"

"I can try . . . Man, déjà vu," Ryan observed dryly. "It is just like my first day here in Newport. Big formal party tonight, me tagging along with the Cohens, pretending like I belong . . . Sandy insists that we all have to go together, as a family."

"The re-launch party for the Newport Group, right?"

"Yeah, right . . . Are you going, Lindsay?"

"No. It's still too strange," Lindsay answered. "He—my dad, Caleb, Mr. Nichol, whoever—he invited me. Actually, I think what he said was, 'Lindsay, as my daughter, you should be there.'" Even over the phone, Ryan could sense her distaste. "Who is he to tell me that I should or shouldn't do anything?"

"Nobody," Ryan assured her. "He's nobody."

Lindsay hesitated before suggesting, "I could come though. I mean, I would, with you. If you wanted me or . . . needed me or anything."

Ryan gripped the phone, glad that Lindsay couldn't see him. He was grateful that she had offered, and he wanted her with him, but something inside him recoiled, afraid. The actual party might be safe—Caleb's presence excepted—but inevitably, Ryan knew, he and Lindsay would find themselves alone together. And he was terrified that he still couldn't trust himself, terrified that he'd see that Lindsay didn't trust him either.

"Yeah, no. I mean, I never understood that whole misery loves company business," Ryan claimed. "You stay home. Read. Relax. Enjoy the evening for both of us."

"Okay. If you're sure," Lindsay agreed dubiously. "Or . . . I could come over now, Ryan. Or a little later, because I guess it is too early. We could spend the day together. You know, just talk, or . . . whatever."

"No, don't." Ryan heard his own abrupt cadence, and immediately modified it. "I mean, thanks," he said gently. "But, I'm really tired, and I've got to figure some things out. So, I'll talk to you later. Okay?"

After he hung up, Ryan paced quietly through the house to the French doors and opened them. It was barely after dawn, the day windless and already warm. He stood in the doorway, leaning his cheek against his raised arm, squinting into the sun.

Why did every emotion have to come wrapped up in its polar opposite anymore? Ryan desperately missed his friendship with Seth, but he still felt the need to put a safe distance between the two of them; he yearned to remain part of the Cohen family, but he felt suffocated in their house; he craved time with Lindsay, but he was afraid of how he might touch her, that his urgent hands and sheer need would destroy her and their relationship.

More than anything, Ryan wanted something simple. Something real.

He made a sudden decision and went back into the house.

TBC


	11. Chapter 10

For those of you looking forward to a Newport party, I promise we'll get there in the next chapter. Thanks for the continued reviews.

The characters are still borrowed from Schwartz and company, although my Lindsay has little in common with the show's anymore, except for red hair.

And this is still PG13.

**Collision Course Chapter 10 **

When Sandy woke again, thin strips of sunlight were pushing through the blinds. He closed his eyes against the bright intrusion and stretched drowsily. "Mmm, sweetheart," he murmured, "I had the best dream. There was this gorgeous blonde, classy, elegant, every man's fantasy, and she just couldn't keep her hands off me. Care to make the dream come true?"

He rolled over, reaching for Kirsten, but once again the space next to him on the bed was empty.

"Kirsten!" Sandy called, throwing off the comforter. "Honey?"

"I'm here." Kirsten was standing at their bedroom door, holding it open. She turned around to smile at him, her face alight and her eyes dancing with excitement.

"Sandy, isn't it wonderful?" she asked. Her voice sounded almost giddy. Without moving, Kirsten stretched out her hand, beckoning him over. Sandy looked at her quizzically, but he joined her, and she laced her fingers in his, swinging their joined hands slightly. "It's Rosa's day off."

Baffled, Sandy shook his head. "All right, it's Rosa's day off. And this makes you so happy because . . . you feel like cleaning?"

"Sandy! No!" Kirsten laughed and tickled the side of his neck. "Sweetheart, you must still be asleep. Wake up. Rosa's not here. And I smell bacon."

-

Seth padded into the kitchen, sniffing. His hair was rumpled, and his left cheek was creased with sleep-wrinkles. He looked very much the way he had when he was a little boy creeping downstairs on Christmas morning—drowsy and hopeful and a little uncertain.

"Hey," he said with a tentative smile when Ryan turned from the stove, spatula in hand.

Ryan lifted one shoulder in greeting, opening a cabinet to pull out a mixing bowl. "Hey."

"You're making breakfast," Seth said unnecessarily.

"Yeah."

"Okay then." Seth nodded and took a step further into the room. "You're making breakfast, Ryan," he repeated. "Because . . .?"

"Nobody ate much last night and it's Rosa's day off," Ryan explained. His voice was neutral, and slightly muffled by the refrigerator door that blocked his face from Seth. "I figured people might be hungry for more than bagels and cereal, that's all . . . Pancakes or French toast?"

"What?"

"You want pancakes or French toast? I was kinda thinking, maybe French toast this morning. Apple spice variety? We haven't had it in a while."

"Yeah, good, absolutely. Apple spice French toast. Excellent choice," Seth agreed. Surreptitiously he pinched his own arm to make sure he was awake. "Ow . . . yeah, fully conscious here."

Ryan broke four eggs into a bowl with one-handed finesse. "Ow, what?" he asked, without looking up. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." Seth rubbed the sting out of his arm, said yet again, "You're making breakfast, dude."

"Yeah. I think we've pretty much established that."

Seth listened closely, almost certain that he could hear a hint of amusement in Ryan's voice. "So. Right. . . You need any help with that?" Seth indicated the awkward way Ryan was balancing the bowl between his sling and his chest while he whisked the eggs. "I mean, I could . . ."

"Nah, I'm good."

Seth shrugged and shuffled backwards, his expression crestfallen. "I'll just get out of your way then."

Ryan's eyes narrowed, watching him. Then he took a deep breath and braced himself. "You know, Seth," he suggested, "if you really want to help, you could get me the nutmeg."

Seth stopped, hopeful again. "You need the nutmeg?"

"Yeah. I definitely need the nutmeg."

Ryan gave a small, crooked half-smile and Seth grinned in response.

"Ryan," he declared exuberantly, "I would love to get you the nutmeg. And I will get you the nutmeg. Just as soon as you tell me what it is and where I can find it."

Ryan raised his eyebrows, frowning slightly. "This is just breakfast, Seth," he cautioned. "That's all . . . The spices are in the third drawer on the left. Same place as always. And read the label this time, okay? I don't want a repeat of the I-thought-it-was-oregano incident."

"Got it. Just breakfast. Third drawer. Read labels." Seth 's head bobbed enthusiastically. "Nutmeg coming right up."

He could decode the Ryan-speak message. Seth knew Ryan was warning him not to expect too much, to take things slow. This breakfast was probably his peace offering to the parents, to make up for upsetting them with the whole emancipated-minor-move-out business, but even so, Seth figured it had to be considered a breakthrough. Ryan was talking to him, voluntarily and, all things considered, pretty naturally. He was even including Seth in the preparations.

They were making breakfast together.

And breakfast, after all, was fuel for the day. Weren't the experts always saying that it was the most important meal?

Much more important than dinner.

Just outside the kitchen, Sandy and Kirsten paused, holding hands. They watched Ryan take a spice canister from Seth, read the label, scowl, and rap their son lightly on the head with it. They saw Seth whip out another jar from behind his back, and present it, beaming, then dance out of range as Ryan aimed another mock-blow. They heard Ryan growl, "Get rid of the oregano, Seth. Now," and Seth retort, "Whatever you say, Wolfgang. Sorry, I mean Mr. Puck. Sir . . . Geez, some chefs have no sense of humor at all."

Sandy tightened his hold on Kirsten's hand. "So, honey, you hungry this morning?" he asked.

Kirsten squeezed his fingers in return. "Oh yes," she answered blissfully. "Suddenly I am starved."

-

"Kirsten, what time do you . . .?"

"Shhh, Sandy," Kirsten cautioned from the armchair where she was sitting, a magazine open and ignored on her lap. "Ryan's asleep."

"Here?" Sandy looked past her and saw Ryan on the floor, legs stretched in front of him, back propped against the couch, head slumped into a cushion that was tucked awkwardly under his cheek. "Why is he sleeping here? That doesn't look comfortable at all. Want me to wake him so he can take a nap in his own bed?"

Kirsten laughed softly. "Wake him so he can go to sleep? No, leave him, Sandy. He's fine. He's seventeen. It's only old bones like yours that can't handle falling asleep on the floor."

She reached out one hand, patted an arm of the chair with the other. Sandy joined her there, pulling her against him and massaging the back of her neck.

"You are going to pay for that old bones remark, lady," he warned in a whisper. "Later. Maybe even on the floor." His eyebrows waggled lasciviously at Kirsten and she laughed again.

"I'm looking forward to it," she said. She gave a contented sigh and burrowed her head against Sandy's chest.

"So, what's going on here?"

"Well, I was heading into the den to return some calls when I heard the TV," Kirsten explained. "I knew it couldn't Seth, since he's doing dishes—he is doing dishes, isn't he?"

"As we speak. It will take longer, since he forgot the detergent the first time, but old bones here set him straight . . . You heard the TV? Sweetheart, the television isn't even on."

"No, I know," Kirsten murmured. "Ryan was already asleep in front of it when I looked in. He was up so late last night, and with everything that's happened, I think he's just exhausted. So I turned the TV off, and put that pillow under his head so that he won't wake up with a sore neck. He never even stirred."

Sandy's eyebrows shot up. "A sore neck?" he teased. "Kirsten, the kid is seventeen. He can't handle having no pillow? Now see, I'm a manly man. I can take it. Comes from having a wife who steals your pillows if you roll over during the night."

Kirsten slapped Sandy's leg playfully. "Behave, you. I do not steal your pillows. I may borrow them, but I always give them back."

"Mmm. You do, don't you? Sometimes with interest." Sandy dropped a kiss onto the top of Kirsten's head. "So, mama bear. Did you return your calls?"

Kirsten shook her head. "Not yet . . . Half of them were from Julie anyway. I swear she calls to get my opinion just so she can disregard it."

"That is a Julie Cooper-Nichol specialty . . . So in other words, you've just been sitting here, watching Ryan sleep? Because sweetheart . . ."

"I have not," Kirsten claimed indignantly. "I was reading." Sandy raised his eyebrows and she waved her magazine at him, insisting, "I was."

"Right. You were reading," Sandy drawled.

Kirsten sighed in defeat. "All right, Sandy, I know you think I'm silly. It's just that . . . well, the boys made breakfast. And everybody ate, and nobody stormed out or said anything hurtful."

"Some of us were even funny," Sandy recalled, patting himself proudly on the chest.

"Tried to be funny," Kirsten corrected affectionately. "Honestly, Sandy, that was not even close to a French accent, and French toast has nothing to do with France . . . "

Sandy nibbled her ear. "That's what made it funny."

"That tickles," Kirsten squealed softly. "No, don't stop . . . Anyway, when I saw Ryan asleep in here, it just struck me . . . Think, sweetheart. How often has he even left his room since he came home from the hospital? Voluntarily, I mean . . . I just wanted to sit for a while and appreciate how . . . normal . . . everything feels."

"Normal," Sandy mused. "It does, doesn't it?"

They sat in satisfied silence for a moment. The dishwasher hummed distantly from the kitchen, and Ryan gave a muffled little sigh as he shifted against the couch and pushed his cheek further into the cushion. Kirsten tiptoed over, took a throw from the back of the couch and draped it over his legs. When she returned to the chair, Sandy had claimed her spot, so she simply settled on his lap.

"Oh . . . so Sandy, what were you saying when you came in? Something about time?"

"And there goes normal," Sandy groaned. "I wondered what time you wanted to leave for your dad's party tonight. By the way, 'never' is a perfectly acceptable response. You don't have to be there early do you?"

"No, Julie is more than happy to be the sole hostess tonight . . . Oh, Sandy, I wish we could just send our regrets. But Dad thinks I'm neglecting the business as it is. He'll go through the roof if I don't show up tonight. And I can't go without you . . ."

"And neither one of us is ready to leave the boys home alone. So . . .what do you say? Seven-thirty?"

"Seven-thirty," Kirsten agreed.

"And it's what? Eleven-fifteen now?" Sandy looked at his wife with mock concern. "Honey," he urged solemnly, "better get moving. That only gives you eight hours to get ready."

Seth appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, in time to see his mother cuff his father lightly on the cheek and hear her tease, "You will pay for that, old bones. Later. Maybe even on the floor . . ."

Kirsten blushed at the sight of her son. "Oh, Seth, sweetie, I didn't see you. Your father and I were just. . ."

"No, no, no, no, no. Don't explain," Seth begged. "I don't want to know." He glanced down at Ryan's sleeping form. "So this is, what? Siesta time in Casa Cohen?"

"Don't wake him, Seth," Kirsten warned. "In fact, we probably should all get out of here and let him sleep in peace. All this talking is bound to wake him up."

Seth shuffled in place uncomfortably. "Yeah, okay, but . . ."

"But what?" Sandy asked, sitting up straight. Something about Seth's demeanor made him apprehensive.

Seth pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to his father. "I brought in the mail. Yours is on the counter, but this just came too. For Ryan."

Kirsten arched her head over Sandy's arm to read the envelope. "Oh," she breathed.

"Yeah." Seth chewed his lip. "It's from UCLA. It's gotta be about that internship thing, right? I thought that was all settled. Over." He looked at his parents, misery and self-recrimination evident in his dark eyes. "Man," he muttered. "Just when I thought we were getting past . . . well, you know. What I did."

"Maybe it's good news, son." Sandy bounced the envelope in his hand, as if its weight might tell him something about the contents. "Maybe they have an opening and want Ryan to reapply."

"You think?"

"It's possible," Sandy said, but his tone didn't sound confident.

"Let me have that, honey," Kirsten urged, taking the letter. "I'll give it to Ryan."

Seth coughed self-consciously. "Um, I could do that, Mom," he offered. "I mean, I probably should, all things considered."

"No, sweetie, I'll handle it."

"I would give it to him, you know. You can trust me," Seth said. His tone was defensive, on the edge of anger.

"Seth, honey, I know that. I'm not implying that you'd keep it from him." Suddenly Kirsten sounded very tired. "But just leave it to me, okay? I'll give it to Ryan later. There's no point waking him now. The news will be the same no matter what time he gets it." She stood up and cinched her robe tighter. "Well, I guess I'd better go make those calls."

"And I have a deposition I have to review," Sandy said, following her to the door. "Seth? You coming, son?"

Seth twirled the dishtowel he was holding and whipped it between his hands. "Yeah, sure," he said listlessly, giving Ryan a backwards glance as he trailed his parents out. "I'm sure I've got . . . something to do."

-

"Lindsay! Oh good, good, good, you're here!"

Summer grabbed Lindsay's hand and spun her into the room so that she landed a little breathlessly on the bed next to a stack of dresses. Snatching up the top one, Summer held it up to her body and examined the effect critically in the full-length mirror. She made a face, tossed the dress over a chair, and reached for the next one.

"Summer? Were you . . . expecting me?" Lindsay asked. "Because I just thought I'd drop in. If you left me a message or something, I didn't get it."

"What?" Summer asked absently, fiddling with the rhinestone clasps on the dress she was holding. "Shit, this one is broken . . . Oh no, no message, Linds. But I'm glad you stopped by because now you can help me decide what to wear tonight. I narrowed it down to these five—well, these three anyway. What do you think?"

"Oh, I . . . um, I don't know. They're all beautiful." Lindsay fingered the soft folds of the skirt nearest her, careful not to snag the delicate fabric. It looked really fragile, and as usual, her fingernails were slightly ragged.

"Honestly, can you believe Coop's mom, telling all the women that we should wear white or a shade of gold so that we won't ruin her color scheme? Boring! And not my best colors either. But I figure 'shade of gold' could mean lemon yellow, right? So . . . maybe this?"

Summer draped a silk confection in front of her and cocked her head questioningly.

"That one is gorgeous," Lindsay agreed. "Especially with your hair."

"Yes, see, that's just what I thought. As long as . . . you don't think it washes out my skin tone, do you?"

"No," Lindsay said, wondering exactly what Summer meant. "It's perfect."

Summer nodded, scooping up the rejected dresses and heading for the closet. "I guess I can live with perfect. What are you wearing Lindsay? Gold wouldn't be a problem for you, not with your red hair. Maybe something really deep and rich. Or are you going with white? You're not, are you? Because that would be a serious mistake."

"Actually, I'm not going at all," Lindsay said. She looked down at her hands, which she had unconsciously folded in her lap, wondering why she always sat like a parochial schoolgirl. Summer certainly didn't.

"Really? You're not?" Summer reappeared, holding two pairs of very high heels by the straps. " . . .Which ones, Linds?"

Lindsay pointed to the shoes in her right hand and Summer nodded, tossing the other pair back inside.

"So, why aren't you going? This is a party for your father's company at your father's house . . . Or, I mean, is that the problem?" She scrunched her nose in consternation. "Bad family relations? Should I even be calling him your father?"

"I guess," Lindsay shrugged. "That's what he is. The whole thing is still pretty awkward, though, and I hate the way those society people stare at me, so I decided I'd just stay home. But then I found out Ryan was going to be there, so I thought I'd go after all. Only . . ."

"Only?" Summer prompted.

"Ryan said I should stay home . . . Summer, that's why I came over. I wanted to talk to you. I think Ryan's avoiding me. He's found some excuse not to spend time with me ever since . . . well, you know." Lindsay flushed. "I mean, he's sweet and polite and all, but he keeps pushing me away. I hate it," she admitted miserably. "What do you think I should do?"

Summer sat on the floor, pulled her legs into a lotus position, propped her chin on her tented fingers, and studied Lindsay.

"I think . . ." she said slowly, "that you should put this in my expert hands. Let me get a read on the situation for you, Linds. I'll talk to Chino at the party and sound him out."

Lindsay shook her head, and Summer raised an admonishing finger.

"Subtly," she promised. "I'll just mention your name, see how he responds, find out what mood he's in, how he's feeling. You know, he's probably just doing the whole guilty-conscience, holding the weight-of-the-world thing that Cohen always talks about." Summer's voice got slightly dreamy, and she added, "Although I've gotta say, Chino does have the arms for it . . . Anyway, Linds, if it seems like a good idea, I'll call you and you come to the party and surprise him. Plan?"

Lindsay considered for a moment and then nodded. "Yeah, I guess. Plan," she agreed.

"In fact," Summer suggested mischievously, "there are a few other things you could do to surprise him too."

Lindsay bit her lip, half suspicious, half excited. "Really? Like . . . what exactly?"

Summer uncurled herself and got to her feet. "Just let me get us something to drink, and I will explain all," she declared. At the door, she paused to look at Lindsay appraisingly and add, "And Linds? Definitely no white. Wear something gold."

-

"Okay, Dad, I know I'm supposed to sort the recycling this afternoon. Be down in ten," Seth yelled when he heard the knock at his door in mid-afternoon. "I'm just finishing up some stuff in here. And by stuff, I mean homework." He shoved the comic book he was reading under his pillow and picked up his history text just in case his father walked in.

"Seth? It's Ryan."

Seth scrambled off the bed and yanked the door open, stumbling over two pairs of shoes in the process. "Dude," he said uncertainly. "I, um. I didn't think you were doing stairs yet."

Ryan scowled at his crutch, which he had used to knock on the door, and wedged it gingerly back under his arm. "Yeah, not supposed to, but this? Is getting really old."

Seth nodded, waited, nodded again. "So . . ." he stammered, just as Ryan began, "Anyway . . ."

"You go," Seth offered. "After all, you scaled the heights to get here. And so, yeah . . . did you want something, Ryan?"

"My calculus binder? You borrowed it a couple weeks ago . . ."

They both paused, realizing how long that couple weeks had been. Finally Seth said, "Shit, man, I'm sorry. I thought I returned that. You want to come in while I find it? 'Cause it may take a while. Mom's decided I should be my own maid service, and the service? Has sorta been on strike."

Ryan took in the shambles of the room, his nose wrinkling at the faint but unmistakable odor of overripe clothes and leftover food. "Yeah. I can see that. Smell it too."

"Or I could bring the binder down," Seth suggested. "Whatever's good for you, man." He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, trying to indicate that Ryan was welcome to come in, but that Seth wouldn't be offended if he left.

Ryan shrugged and stepped cautiously inside the door. He dropped down on the edge of Seth's desk, his braced leg stuck out awkwardly in front of him.

Seth opened his school bag, dumping out books, notebooks, comic books, miscellaneous supplies, a Gameboy, fifteen CDs and a Slinky. "Don't ask," he said in answer to Ryan's questioning look, as he started to forage through everything school-related. "So, um, how have you been?"

"Since breakfast?"

"No, I mean—ah, here it is!" Seth yanked Ryan's binder out from under a haphazard pile of textbooks and held it up triumphantly. "All in order. No coffee stains or anything."

"Thanks." Ryan crammed the binder under his sling and got up to leave, but Seth did a shuffle-step toward the doorway, blocking it.

"Yeah, so, how have you been, you know, generally?"

Ryan shrugged one shoulder. "I'm good. I get headaches sometimes, that's all."

"Hey, better than being a carrier," Seth joked. Then he backpedaled quickly. "But everything else?"

"Getting there. Really ready for all this to be gone, though." Ryan indicated the brace, crutch and sling with a scathing sweep of his eyes.

"Yeah, all that? I know it's the whole wounded warrior look, and some of the ladies find it sexy . . ." Ryan snorted and Seth grinned. "Hey, that's what I've heard. But I can see that it would cramp the Atwood style. You graduate from crutch to cane pretty soon though, don't you?"

"Not soon enough. Another couple weeks, depending on how rehab goes."

"Yeah, well, you'll ace rehab," Seth predicted. "And a cane . . . That's progress, right? Less Tiny Tim, more Mr. Peanut."

Ryan wrinkled his nose. "Mr. Peanut? Is that an improvement?"

"Actually . . . not so sure. Mr. Peanut is definitely more dapper, but also, you know, he's a nut, so point to Tiny Tim in the human being department. And Mr. Peanut is better dressed, but his body shape? Not exactly what we call ripped . . ." Seth heard himself babbling and stopped, self-conscious. "But, hey, whatever. I'm just glad you're . . . getting there. Back to normal."

Ryan twirled his crutch thoughtfully, studying the floor. "How about you, Seth? Doing okay?"

"Me?" Seth asked, surprised. "Dude, I'm not the one who played crash test dummy and has to have muscles knit back together in rehab."

Ryan grimaced. "Yeah, Seth, about that clinic business. I'm sorry Sandy's forcing you to be my personal chauffeur. That sucks, man."

"Yeah, cause it cuts majorly into my A-list social life." Seth noticed Ryan shifting uncomfortably and added, his voice serious, "I don't mind. Really, dude, I don't. I mean, it's sort of the least I can do . . . Ryan, you haven't seen Mom recently, have you?"

Ryan glimpsed up, surprised at the abrupt change of subject. "If this morning counts as recently, then yeah. But not since breakfast. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," Seth said evasively. "It's just . . . well, the whole cooking bacon thing meant a lot to her, that's all. You'd never know it to look at her, would you—that the way to her heart is through pork products?"

Ryan scratched his cheek with the edge of his binder, studying Seth. "You're acting a little strange, Seth. Strange-er, I mean. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. I think. You know, sure. Why not? . . . Everything's copasetic. . . Okay, so you probably need to go. Sit down. Relax. Rest up for the big party tonight . . ."

"Right. The big party. Thanks, man—you know, for finding this." Ryan shot Seth a dubious glance, waved his notebook in farewell, and left.

Seth resisted the urge to help as Ryan maneuvered his way down the stairs, but he stood at the top watching, just in case, until he made it safely to the bottom. "Hey, dude," Seth called, as Ryan turned to head for his room. "That party tonight? I don't know. Did you want to, maybe, hang out there?"

Ryan bit his lip, shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Nah, Seth. I mean, you should spend time with everybody else. I was thinking maybe I'd just, you know, disappear once we got there. The idea of a party . . .?"

"Right. Not so high on the fun scale. Especially a Julie Cooper-Nichol party. So, cool. Disappear. Yeah, it's a plan." Seth bobbed his head. He backed up until he was in his room, where he flopped flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering how to decode the message of Ryan's visit. Combined with their talk last night and breakfast this morning, it had to mean something significant.

Maybe it was a personal overture.

Maybe it was a truce signal, the Atwood equivalent of waving a white flag.

Maybe it was, like, a rehearsal, or trial run, or some kind of friendship rough draft. The sloppy copy his teachers were always talking about.

But Ryan hadn't read his letter yet so maybe, Seth concluded miserably, he should just stop thinking about it.

In the end, it could wind up meaning nothing at all.

-

"Hi, sweetie."

"Um . . . hi," Ryan said, confused. He hadn't expected to find Kirsten in his room when he came downstairs. She was standing by the desk, tapping an envelope on the blotter, and the obvious strain in her voice worried him. He hoped she hadn't seen him going upstairs, and that he wasn't about to get a Mom-style lecture warning him not to rush his recovery. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't think so. I hope not." Kirsten gave him an apprehensive smile. "Ryan, I'm sorry for letting myself in. I knocked, but you didn't answer, so . . ."

Ryan waved his binder in explanation and set it down. "Calculus notes. I thought I could get caught up over spring break, but I left them with Seth . . . It's your house, Kirsten. You can come in anytime."

"Our house," Kirsten corrected. "And this is your room, and you are entitled to your privacy . . . By the way, breakfast was wonderful, Ryan. Thank you. It was sweet of you to make it."

Ryan shrugged, watching her closely. "Seth helped," he said.

"Oh, I'm sure he did. I just hope his help didn't make too much of a mess." Kirsten attempted a laugh, not very successfully. "I'm afraid Seth takes after me in the kitchen. But his intentions are good." Her voice trailed off.

"Kirsten?"

"Usually his intentions are good," she murmured to herself. Then she moved closer to Ryan and impulsively stroked his cheek, adding, "I can't tell you how happy I am that you boys are talking. Does that mean . . . are you friends again?"

It seemed to Kirsten that Ryan hesitated, just for a moment. "Yeah," he said softly. "We're friends."

"So you've forgiven him?"

"Kirsten." Ryan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why are you asking me this?"

"I just need to know. Have you?"

Her voice was earnest and beseeching, and it made Ryan very nervous. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her. "This thing drives me crazy," he muttered as he un-strapped his brace and massaged his knee, wincing a little. Then he added, without looking up, "I can't stay mad at Seth, Kirsten. It's not possible." Ryan turned around and faced her, his eyes challenging. "So now will you tell me why you're here?"

Kirsten took a deep breath and handed him the envelope she was holding. "This came for you today. It's from the selections committee at UCLA. About the internship, I assume."

Ryan looked at the white oblong blankly, running his thumbnail along the edge.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

Kirsten waited and then prompted again, "Ryan? I could leave if you'd rather read it alone."

"What? . . . No. No, you can stay."

Ryan took a penknife out of his desk drawer and slit the top of the envelope neatly and deliberately. Kirsten watched, trying to read his face as he scanned the contents.

"That's that, then."

With a ragged smile, Ryan balled the letter up and tossed it toward his wastebasket. It ricocheted off the rim, rolled onto the floor, and stopped near Kirsten's foot. She scooped up the wad of paper, cupping it between both hands.

"Ryan?"

He shrugged. "Just toss it."

Obediently, Kirsten dropped the letter into the trash. She took the envelope from the bed and threw it away too.

"Do you want to tell me?" she asked. "You don't have to, but . . ."

"It's not a secret," Ryan said evenly. He busied himself taking papers from his binder, rearranging them, and clipping them back inside. "Sandy said no more secrets, right? It's just . . . A few days ago I wrote to the selections committee and apologized for missing the interview. I told them I'd . . . that there had been an accident. And I asked if there was any chance I could reschedule. There's not." His eyes flickered up at her, nakedly despondent. "It's not a surprise or anything. I knew it would be too late."

Kirsten caught his hand. "Oh, Ryan, I am so sorry. Maybe if Sandy or I called . . . God, why didn't we contact the committee? We should have done that as soon as we found out what happened. I don't know why it didn't occur to us. It's just that with everything else . . ."

"Thanks. But it wasn't your responsibility, Kirsten." Ryan pulled his hand away gently. "Anyway, by the time you found out? The answer would have been the same. It's my own fault. I should have called right away . . .or let Seth do it when he wanted to. Now the slots are already filled. But hey, they told me I could apply again next summer so, who knows?" He looked up from under his bangs and gave Kirsten a wistful half-smile. "Sounds like what the losing team always says, doesn't it? Wait until next year."

Ryan blew out a long breath and reached blindly for a book. He pushed himself up against the headboard, opened to random page and fastened his eyes on the text.

Kirsten stood in the middle of the room, unwilling to leave, but unsure what to say.

"Ryan? Honey? Is there anything we can do?"

"Thanks, but no," he answered softly, his gaze downcast. "That is . . . Kirsten? Could you shut the door when you leave?"

"Of course."

Kirsten took a last look at Ryan, her heart twisting when she noticed the rigid set of his jaw, the way a muscle throbbed in his cheek, and his fingers clutched the book spasmodically. Then she put a hand to her own trembling lips and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

TBC


	12. Chapter 11 Part 1

Chapter 11 (part 1)

Still own nothing OC-related except the DVDs. As always, thanks for the reviews.

**Chapter 11**

"All set, sweetheart?" Sandy asked, ducking into Kirsten's dressing room. Then he hit himself on the forehead dramatically. "Wait, why am I even asking? We don't have to leave for another twenty minutes. That means you still have at least forty-five minutes worth of primping to do."

"Don't say 'primping', Sandy," Kirsten reproved without turning away from the mirror. She was frowning at her reflection and holding a mascara wand, but she wasn't doing anything with it.

Sandy swept the hair off the back of her neck and dropped a kiss just below the clasp of her necklace. "I keep telling you, honey, you can't improve on perfection."

Kirsten smiled, a little wanly, and rubbed the hand that was resting on her shoulder. "I'm just dreading this evening, Sandy. The day started off so well, but now . . ."

"I know. The letter. No sign of Ryan since he read it, huh?"

Kirsten shook her head, her eyes suspiciously bright.

"You know him, sweetheart. Ryan is going to want to deal with it on his own. He's not going to talk about it."

"He should though, Sandy. Don't you think so?"

"Maybe," Sandy conceded thoughtfully. "I'll see if I can't find a good time, get the kid to open up. Of course, that assumes we all survive your father's party tonight. Want me to go check on the boys?"

"Would you? I'll be down in fifteen minutes." Kirsten caught Sandy's skeptical grin. "No, really, sweetheart," she insisted. "I will."

"Right," Sandy teased. "Famous last words." He titled Kirsten's chin up, kissed the tip of her nose, and left.

Outside Seth's room Sandy paused, listening to melancholy strains of music through the closed door. Then he rapped, calling as he entered, "Hey, son! Parent in the house. You're stop number two on the Sandy Cohen 'Are you ready yet?' tour. So, are you ready yet?"

Seth looked up from the bed where he was trotting Captain Oats across the suit jacket that lay beside him. "I guess." He shrugged lethargically. "Just have to put the emergency cyanide pill in my pocket. You know, in case of imminent capture by grandpa or Julie Cooper."

Sandy laughed. "Toss in one of those for me too," he suggested. "And put on that jacket before it's completely wrinkled."

He turned to go, but Seth's voice stopped him. "Hey, Dad . . . Did Mom give Ryan his letter yet?"

"Yes, she did. A couple hours ago."

"So, I know it's really none of my business, except that I sort of made it my business when it was really, really none of my business, but . . . I mean, is everything . . . okay? Did he get into the program?"

"No," Sandy said. "He didn't. But they did invite him to apply again next year."

Seth's mouth twisted. "Next year," he repeated flatly. "So then maybe by next year he'll really forgive me."

Sandy came all the way back into the room, picked up the jacket and sat down next to Seth, putting an arm around his shoulder. "I'm not going to lie to you, son. You screwed up really badly, and when it comes right down to it, your behavior caused Ryan . . . this whole family, actually. . . a lot of pain."

"Yeah, thanks for the 411, Dad. I wasn't aware," Seth said bitterly.

Sandy took Captain Oats out of Seth's restless hands and tucked the toy away on the nightstand. "I'm not trying to make you feel worse, Seth, and I wasn't finished. The fact is, we've all had a hand in this situation, your Mom and me included—even Ryan, for that matter. Now if he had somehow gotten the internship after all . . . well, that would have been terrific, but it wouldn't have magically fixed everything. So the fact that he didn't get it?" Sandy scrubbed a hand across his forehead helplessly.

"Just sucks big time," Seth concluded.

"Yeah, it does," Sandy agreed. "But if it helps, son, Ryan told your mom that he's not mad at you anymore."

Seth looked up dubiously. "After he read the letter? Or before?"

"I'm not sure," Sandy admitted. "I know it was when she went to give it to him, though. Maybe you should talk to Ryan about it."

"Yeah, 'cause that's worked so well for me before."

Sandy sighed. "All right, let's just try and get through tonight . . . Look, buddy, I've got to check on Ryan and see if he's ready. Are you okay?"

"Sure," Seth claimed. "I'm fine. You go ahead."

"Okay. See you downstairs in five?" Sandy ruffled his son's hair and got up. At the door he paused and looked back. Seth was holding Captain Oats again.

Outside Ryan's room, Sandy repeated his knock and call routine. When he got no response, he let himself in. Ryan was standing in front of the mirror, yanking futilely at the tie that hung limp and loose around his neck.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit," Ryan muttered, giving up his one-handed attempt to produce a decent knot. He started to slide his other arm out of the sling when Sandy put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Hold it, kid," he cautioned, turning Ryan around to face him. "No need for that. The tie master's here. Let me take care of that for you." Sandy repositioned the length of fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles Ryan's clumsy efforts had produced. "Okay, around, loop, through, tighten, and . . . voila."

"Voila?" Ryan echoed, peering up from under his bangs.

"Perfect," Sandy explained. He centered the knot, then rested his hands on Ryan's shoulders, smiling at him fondly. "Remind you of anything, kid?"

Ryan nodded. "My first night here with you guys," he recalled, a little wistfully.

"A lot's happened since then," Sandy mused. He looked at Ryan with reflective concern. "Mostly good things, at least from where I stand. What about you, Ryan? Mostly good for you too?"

Ryan's voice was barely a whisper. "Yeah. Yeah, it has been."

"Great. I'm glad to hear it." Sandy checked his watch. "God, look at the time. We have got to be ready before Kirsten, or she'll never let us live it down . . . So," he added casually as he handed Ryan his crutch, "I heard about the news from UCLA. Tough break there, kid."

"Actually," Ryan said dryly, "it's a ligament tear."

Sandy cuffed the side of his head lightly. "I was going for genuine sympathy, smartass . . . Really, Ryan, I'm sorry it didn't work out. You deserve better."

"I don't know about deserve. I was just hoping, that's all. But it's all right, Sandy. Honest." Ryan met Sandy's eyes, quirked one side of his mouth.

"It's not all right," Sandy told him seriously. "And you don't have to pretend that it is. In fact, anytime you want to talk about it . . ."

Ryan nodded. "I know. Thanks." He ducked his head and started to pull away, but Sandy stopped him.

"You don't give up on your dreams, Ryan. Remember that . . . Okay, mini pep talk over. Now, are you good to go?

"Yeah. I'm ready if you are."

"For a Caleb and Julie Nichol party?" Sandy scoffed, putting a hand on Ryan's back as they left the room. "I'm never ready, kid. It's a lot like going to the dentist. I just look for something to dull the pain and try to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible."

Julie opened the door of the Nichol mansion with a flourish and a flash of flaming crimson. Everything about the house shimmered in shades of gold, while Julie herself blazed like the red heart of a fire.

"You're here!" she exclaimed, air-kissing Kirsten and Sandy. "And don't you all look wonderful. Kiki, I've loved that dress every time you've worn it. It just never gets old . . ."

Kirsten smiled caustically. "That could be because it's brand-new."

Julie made a face of faux-apology and turned her attention to Ryan and Seth. "And boys, you both get more handsome every day. I'm just so glad that you all could come, considering, well, everything. It will mean so much to Caleb. He's around here somewhere . . ." She stepped back and twirled so that her lace skirt lifted and flitted around her thighs. "Now, Kiki, tell me honestly, what do you think? I wanted to make a statement tonight, but is this dress too much . . .?"

"For someone else maybe. Not for you, Juju," Kirsten assured her wryly. "Although I thought all the women were supposed to wear white or gold tonight."

"Well, yes," Julie admitted blithely, "that was the idea. But when I saw the full effect of the color scheme, I thought it was just a tad too. . . predictable. It needed something to make it pop."

"And that would be you," Sandy observed.

Julie gave an acid laugh and batted her eyes at him. "Oh, Sandy, you are amusing. No, silly, it needed random touches of another color. See—a single red flower in every centerpiece. But then adding red to the décor naturally meant . . ."

"That you should wear red," Kirsten concluded.

"Well, someone had to, and it was really too late to ask anyone else to change what they planned to wear."

"Oh, you're right," Kirsten agreed. "That would have been rude. Julie, do you suppose I could get a drink . . .?"

Seth sidled closer to Ryan as Julie motioned for a waiter and then danced off to greet other guests, pulling Kirsten along in her wake. "Hey, dude," he whispered in Ryan's ear. "Looks like King Midas had a hand in the decorating scheme here." Getting no response, he elaborated, "You know? Midas? Hand? Gold?"

"Seth, explaining your jokes? Makes them not so funny. Also, it's pretty insulting."

"Ah, point taken. So I guess adding a Goldfinger reference wouldn't help either . . .?"

"Not too much. Look, Seth, do you mind? I'm just gonna . . ." Ryan said vaguely. He gestured past the crowds of people and began to inch toward the next room.

"No, absolutely. You go. Mingle. Or not. Whatever's good. If you need reinforcements or, like, anything, send up a flare. Only make sure it's not gold, or I'll never see it. I'll be . . . around," Seth replied. He pitched his voice at hearty confidence, but the minute Ryan disappeared, he sagged against the wall, exhausted.

An arm dropped around his shoulder, and Seth looked up to see Sandy grinning at him.

"So, son. Breakfast this morning, you and Ryan talking now, even after the news about his internship. That's progress, right?"

Seth shrugged and leaned against his father briefly. "I guess . . . I mean, he hid out in his room all afternoon. And he's not, like, jumping around and waving his hand in the air to get picked first for Team Seth tonight. But, hey, he's talking. Well, at least by Ryan standards. And he's not treating me like I invented Musak or anything, so I suppose, yeah, that's progress."

"And how are you treating him?"

"Me?" Seth asked, surprised. "I'm cool. I mean, you know, as cool as I ever get. Which is, I know, barely tepid. But seriously, dad, I'm trying . . ."

Sandy squeezed Seth's shoulder and released him. "Good. Because it seems to me that since he's been home from the hospital you've lashed out at Ryan as much as he's lashed out at you. Maybe more."

"Hey!" Seth protested. Then his mouth twisted sheepishly. "Okay, that may be true. May have been true. But I apologized." Sandy looked at him appraisingly and Seth insisted, "I did. Last night. And anyway, you've never heard that the best defense is a good offense?"

Sandy raised his eyebrows. "I have," he said ironically. "I just never knew you had."

"Yeah, 'cause a sports reference? I'd need like a Rosetta stone for translation, right? C'mon, dad. I wasn't raised in a cave."

"Glad to hear it. Since I raised you . . . But just remember, son, sometimes if your offense isn't working, all you can do is drop back and punt . . . That was another sports reference, by the way."

"Yeah. And that one? Totally indecipherable."

"We'll look into getting you that Rosetta stone next week. Okay, Seth. You have fun tonight."

Sandy snagged a glass from a passing waiter and started to move away, but Seth grabbed his sleeve.

"Um, wait. Dad? Would you mind if I sort of hung out with you and Mom tonight? 'Cause I'm still pretty much persona non grata with everybody around here, except maybe Summer, and I can't really be sure about her. And Ryan's obviously not ready for an evening-long viewing of Seth Cohen: the director's cut."

"Aw," Sandy drawled. "You want to spend time with your mom and me, son. As a last resort. That's touching. And no. Like you told, Ryan. Mingle. Or not. Whatever's good."

He gave a satirical salute and left.

Seth weighed his options. Brave the crowd and search for a friendly face, or find an abandoned room; he figured that there must be at least fifteen of them available. He could pass the time watching guests from a window and inventing conversations four hundred times more witty than any of them were really having. Or he could outline the first chapter of his great American novel, which had never gotten past the title stage ("A Great American Novel"; Seth wanted to leave nothing to chance.) Or maybe just count the seconds until the Cohen family could go home.

The music was crappy.

The food looked much too complicated to taste good.

None of the faces around him appeared very friendly, even the ones Botoxed into frozen smiles.

Seth scanned the room without much hope. Then just beyond the doorway, he saw Summer standing with Zach and Marissa. Summer looked vivid and inviting and she definitely smiled when she noticed him. Seth raised a tentative hand in greeting and she waved back, beckoning him over. At the same time, she elbowed Zach until he turned and gestured a little unenthusiastically for Seth to join them.

Okay, it wasn't an engraved invitation, but it would do. Besides, Summer had told him to rejoin the world, and even Ryan had urged him to spend time with other people at the party.

Seth wondered briefly if Ryan had vanished on purpose, so Seth would have a clear field and their friends wouldn't have to juggle loyalties tonight. That would be a typical Ryan gesture, he decided, a kind of stealth generosity.

Summer had widened her eyes and was cocking her head, a definite "Come here, Cohen. Now," signal. Seth gathered his courage and started toward her, mentally composing a clever opening comment. Then he jerked to a halt. His grandfather was bearing down on him from the right, like a torpedo seeking its target.

That was not good. Not good at all. Seth knew Caleb had been waiting for this opportunity. It wouldn't even matter to him that other people would overhear. His grandfather would still carry out his mission: he would offer Seth all kinds of unwelcome and emasculating advice, insult him in subtle but deeply wounding ways, and leave him emotionally bloodied within five minutes.

Frantically, Seth searched for a way to escape. He got his chance when a heavyset man waylaid Caleb, literally grabbed his lapels, and engaged him in instant conversation. But to his dismay, Seth couldn't see any way to reach Summer without going past his grandfather. That would put him within easy capture range, and unfortunately, the cyanide pill in his pocket was strictly imaginary.

Rejoining the world would have to wait. All things considered, Seth decided he really had only one choice. He ducked out the door behind him and went to find an abandoned room.


	13. Chapter 11 Part 2

**Collision Course Chapter 11 (part 2)**

This was, Ryan decided, the stiffest Newport party that he'd ever had to attend. Julie had done herself proud; every aspect was polished, slick, and completely artificial. Ryan didn't even think the people looked real. They stood around, posing like mannequins, wearing incredibly uncomfortable clothing, punctuating empty conversations with air kisses, and nibbling canapés that appeared as elaborate and edible as Julie's jewelry. At least when the Cohens hosted parties, they invited human beings, and served real food. Besides, anytime Ryan wanted, he could always retreat to the poolhouse. Here at Palace Nichol, he had no idea where to find sanctuary.

Sidling toward the patio, Ryan bumped into somebody. Liquid sloshed over his wrist.

"Excuse me," he muttered, darting a glanced sideways. The woman he had jostled, a slim, severe brunette, maybe in her thirties, didn't look familiar, and she didn't appear upset, but she was staring at him with avid interest.

"Oh darling," she drawled. "Don't apologize. These things happen." She signaled a waiter for a napkin, dabbed her own cleavage—although Ryan saw no sign of moisture there—and then wrapped the square of linen around his wrist. After a moment, Ryan attempted to ease his hand away, but she held the cloth firmly in place. Her gaze swept over him, changing from curious to appraising to frankly predatory. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Alyse Clairmont. My husband Douglas works for the Newport Group finance department."

Before Ryan could introduce himself, Alyse tightened her grip and added, "And you must be Ryan, the boy I've heard so much about. You're the Cohens' . . . that is, you stay with the Cohens, don't you?"

Ryan managed a nod. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Clairmont."

"Please. Alyse."

"Alyse," Ryan amended ". . . It's dry, by the way."

"Hmm?"

"My wrist. It's dry now. Thanks."

"Oh, of course." Alyse laughed lightly and unwrapped the napkin, her nails grazing Ryan's pulse point. "Would you care to join me, Ryan? Doug seems to have deserted me again, and I'm sure it must be uncomfortable for you to have to stand for very long." Her fingers trailed along his inner thigh meaningfully, just above the brace. "We could find a place to relax."

Ryan flushed and sucked in his upper lip, embarrassed and annoyed to find himself responding to this woman. Her type didn't interest him. She was too obvious, too immediately proprietary, but the fact that his pants suddenly felt too small indicated that Ryan's dick had missed the memo.

"No . . . thanks, but I have to . . . " He cocked his head toward the terrace, hoping to indicate that he was supposed to meet someone there.

Alyse sighed. She removed her hand from Ryan's leg, bit into a small canapé and delicately brushed an imaginary crumb from her mouth. "Are you sure, Ryan?" Her voice caressed his name, breathed it like a forbidden kiss. "After all, we're just getting to know each other." Alyse broke off a piece of cracker and fed it to him a little forcibly, purring, "Hungry? These are delicious, aren't they?" Her index finger brushed stray morsels off his upper lip and swirled them into his mouth.

Ryan swallowed, trying not to let his tongue touch Alyse's finger, which was difficult, since she seemed in no hurry to remove it.

"Chino! There you are!"

Ryan blinked in surprise, as Summer broke Alyse's hold and slid in next to him, linking her arm with his and smiling brightly at the older woman.

"Hi, Mrs. Clairmont," she chirped. "Remember me? I'm Summer Roberts. Your daughter Madison and I took gymnastics together. How does she like college, by the way? She's, what, a senior now, isn't she?"

"Sophomore. Madison just loves Brown," Alyse said tightly, grabbing a fresh drink from the nearest tray. "Well, Ryan, it was so nice meeting you. So enjoy the evening. And remember, my offer stands. Anytime. Summer, lovely to see you."

"You too. Say hi to Maddie for me," Summer caroled, waving as Alyse walked away. Then she swatted Ryan's arm and glared at him, her hands planted accusingly on her hips. "Exactly what do you think you were doing, Atwood?"

"I wasn't doing anything, Summer. At least I was trying not to."

Summer glanced meaningfully at his crotch. "Yeah? Well, try harder."

"Summer," Ryan groaned, his ears burning.

"Just get this straight, Chino. I do not let people mess with my friends, and Lindsay is a friend of mine. And I thought she was something more than a friend to you."

"She is. Summer, come on, that was just . . ."

"You having an encounter of the Mrs. Robinson kind? Playing a round of MILF all by yourself?" Summer concluded.

"Come on, I wasn't . . ." Ryan protested.

"You were everything but, Chino. And you're just lucky Lindsay didn't see you." Summer looked around the room innocently. "Where is Lindsay anyway?"

Ryan sighed. "She's not here," he admitted.

"No? Why not? You two aren't having problems or anything, are you?"

"No," Ryan claimed. When Summer frowned at him skeptically, he clarified, "I mean, not problems exactly. It's just that . . . well, things have been pretty tense and complicated at the Cohen house, and I don't want to drag Lindsay through all that . . ."

"Chino, hello, look around. We're not at the Cohen house."

Ryan raised his eyebrows. "Oh yeah, and things are never tense or complicated here. I just thought that Lindsay didn't need all the pressure, you know?"

"You thought. What about Lindsay? What did she think? Did she want to come?"

Ryan shrugged one shoulder and twisted his watchband. "I don't know. I mean, she said she'd come with me if I wanted her to. . ." He ran a hand through his hair, murmuring under his breath. "God, I wish she had come."

"Hmm." Summer nodded decisively. Then she spun around, so abruptly that Ryan had to catch his balance. "Okay, well, it's been fun, Chino. Gotta go find Zach now."

"Summer?"

"I'll see you around. Ciao!" she called as she walked away.

Ryan shook his head. Maybe Seth understood Summer, but he certainly never did.

Thinking that the party would be easier to handle outdoors, Ryan began to work his way toward the patio. He felt clumsy and conspicuous. Every time he moved, his fucking crutch called attention to him. People who were unaware of the circumstances raised their eyebrows questioningly when they noticed him; those who knew what happened pursed their lips in sympathy. Real or feigned, Ryan wanted no part of it. He definitely didn't want to be the topic of any conversation, and he hoped he was just imagining the whispers that followed him as he made his way through the crowd.

It felt a lot like navigating a minefield. Ryan kept checking the ground, afraid that he would accidentally plant the tip of his crutch on someone's expensively shod toe. If the someone was another Alyse, the misstep could be fatal.

Across the terrace Ryan spotted Marissa and Alex. He paused, considering. Maybe he should join them. That would be safe. It would also be boring; Ryan couldn't imagine what they would talk about. Both girls had visited him regularly, and he supposed that they were friends, but they'd pretty much exhausted all their shared interests. He and Alex never had much to say to each other, and as for Marissa . . . Ryan had finally realized that their entire relationship had been based on his need to save her from becoming Dawn Atwood, and Marissa's desire to distance herself from Julie's social-climbing master plan.

Those topics didn't exactly lend themselves to polite party conversation..

His decision made, Ryan slid behind a palm tree strung with golden fairy lights before the girls could spot him. When he turned around, he caught sight of Kirsten approaching. She looked anxious and lonely and like home. Ryan chewed the inside of his cheek, debating. He felt like a four year-old, wanting to hide himself behind his mother's knees, something that had never worked when he was actually four, and the knees belonged to Dawn Atwood. But Kirsten was different, and she was alone, after all. Maybe they could keep each other company, at least for a while.

Just as he was about to step out of the shadows, Ryan saw Kirsten sit down at an empty table, motioning wearily for a waiter. Before the man could reach her, Caleb appeared. He intercepted the server, took two glasses off the tray and pulled up a chair next to his daughter. Ryan swallowed the greeting he'd already formed and moved further back behind the tree, out of sight, but not earshot.

"Great party, Dad," Kirsten murmured, taking a grateful sip.

Caleb scanned the area approvingly. "Yes, indeed. Juju did a fabulous job . . . Kirsten, do you have any idea where my grandson is? I saw him before, but Kellum Meyers pulled me over, and when I finally got away from his boring gall bladder surgery stories, I couldn't find Seth anywhere."

"I'm sure he's with his friends. And Dad, if this is about the 'talk' you've been threatening to have with Seth, don't," Kirsten warned. "Just . . . don't."

"I have his best interests at heart, Kiki," Caleb claimed.

Kirsten took another, deeper, sip of her drink. "I'm sure you do, in your own way. But I'm Seth's mother, and I'm telling you now, leave him alone. Don't criticize him, don't offer him advice, don't give him orders. Is that clear?"

"Very clear, Kiki," Caleb conceded with offended disapproval. "Your son is off limits to his own grandfather."

Kirsten sighed. "Of course he's not 'off limits', Dad. Just . . . try to be a loving grandfather when you see him, all right?"

"That's all I ever intended," Caleb assured her. He adjusted his tie slightly and sat back in his chair. "You look tired, Kiki. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm just not in the mood for a party, that's all."

"You haven't been in the mood for work either. Have you even been to the office in the last two weeks?"

Kirsten reached for the centerpiece and began rearranging the flowers restively. "You know I haven't, Dad. But you also know that I've been getting my work done. It's just . . . Ryan's still housebound, and Seth is grounded, so Sandy and I feel that one of us should be around as much as possible."

"And you volunteered," Caleb concluded. "Look Kiki, I know Seth acted badly and the accident was traumatic for you, but this all should have blown over by now. That boy is just milking the situation, isn't he, preying on your guilt? I told you when you first took him in that he'd be trouble . . ."

Ryan stiffened, listening.

"Dad!"

"This is just the sort of thing he'd try to turn to his advantage. If he's been making demands . . ."

"Demands?" Kirsten scoffed. "Ryan barely asks for a glass of water when he's thirsty. He doesn't make demands. He's not you, Dad," she added pointedly. Kirsten stood up, giving her father a dismissive glare. She started to leave, then turned back to add, "Oh. I changed my mind. Until you develop some compassion and understanding, Seth is off limits to you. Both of my sons are."

Ryan could hear his own hectic breaths, and he felt his nails biting into his palm. The last few times he'd seen Caleb, the man had been aloof, but polite. He hadn't made any inland street thug remarks, hadn't flung barbed comments about car theft or arson into the conversation. Ryan had assumed that they'd reached some level of wary peace. Now he knew it had just been a temporary cease-fire, and he hated the fact that he had made Kirsten a target for her father's criticism.

He couldn't stand any more of this. Ryan turned his back on the entire gathering, and walked away.

Across the patio, Sandy saw Kirsten sweep away from Caleb, noticed the rigid set of her shoulders, and excused himself from the conversation he had been having. He thought he caught a glimpse of Ryan too, but when he looked again, the boy was gone.

"Honey?" Sandy called, taking long strides to catch up with her. "Is everything all right?"

"Oh Sandy, my father . . ." Kirsten began, her voice shaking.

"Say no more." Sandy pulled his wife close. "I thought I recognized the Caleb Nichol effect. Come on, sweetheart. Let's find a quiet corner and sit for a while, just you and me. All right?"

-

Ryan drifted as far away from the milling guests as he could and still remain nominally at the party. His eyes tracked Kirsten as she moved through the crowd, watched with relief as Sandy caught up to her and draped a supportive arm around her waist.

That was good. Ryan liked seeing them stand together.

He eased himself up onto the waist-high wall that rimmed the driveway, stretching his bad knee and wishing that he'd thought to bring a drink with him.

Maybe, he mused, a real drink.

He remembered his first Newport party, the way he'd assumed his most blasé adult face to order a seven and seven, and the way Kirsten had called him on it, saying "I want my husband to be right about you."

Ryan had relinquished the drink, no argument. He had wanted Sandy to be right too. But even now, more than a year and so many reassurances later, he still wasn't sure what he needed to do to be that person, whoever it was, that Sandy believed him to be.

Rolling his head around on his neck, Ryan inspected the distant clusters of people and tried to remember why he was here in the first place. He wished again that he had accepted Lindsay's offer to come along. Her presence—or, Ryan admitted, Seth's—always grounded him. Without either of them, Ryan felt curiously raw, all exposed edges and sharp, unexpected angles.

"Hey, Atwood!"

Ryan followed the sound of his name down to the end of the driveway where a small group had gathered. He recognized the boy waving to him as a forward on his soccer team last year. They had barely spoken during the entire season, but this year the guy—Eric, that was his name—had begun talking to Ryan during their shared Western Civ class, commiserating over the terminally dull lectures and the teacher's daily insistence that "We find our future in our past."

Ryan hoped to God that he was wrong.

Eric beckoned again, swinging a bottle in an arc above his head.

"Come on down, man! The real party's right here."

Ryan cocked his head, considering. He could hear spurts of raucous laughter, see the stumbling forms, the smoke drifting around their heads, and if he couldn't actually smell the weed from this distance, his imagination was doing a good job of producing the aroma for him.

Behind him was the Nichol estate, shimmering like some gilded mirage. Inside it and around it were the people who really knew him in Newport, who had visited him at the Cohen house and who would, when they saw Ryan tonight, ask the same questions, offer the same advice, pointedly avoid the same uncomfortable subjects.

He was so sick of all of it.

All at once, Ryan became aware that the ache was back behind his eyes, throbbing. He looked again at the elaborately decorated house: overlit, overloud, overcrowded, faux-gold, a fucking Julie Cooper Nichol paradise. Kirsten and Sandy seemed to have disappeared into the throng; Ryan searched, but he couldn't see them anywhere.

When they were driving over earlier, Sandy had suggested, "What do you say, honey? We get to the party, we go in the front door, out the back door, and call it a night. Satisfy our social obligations with a cameo appearance."

Kirsten had playfully slapped his arm, scolding "Sandy! It's not just a social obligation. It's business too. Remember, I'm counting on you to be nice tonight," and Seth had warned, "Better not be counting too high then, Mom."

Ryan wished it hadn't been a joke, and that it wasn't too early for him to suggest that they go home, but he knew that coming at all had been hard for Kirsten. They had to stay long enough to justify her efforts. But he desperately needed a refuge, somewhere to hide until it was time to leave.

Ryan turned back toward the road. It was blessedly dark by the sculpted bushes at the bottom of the driveway, and quiet except for staccato bursts of laughter. No music, no lights, no prying eyes.

A few of the kids milling around at the end of the driveway looked familiar from the Harbor campus. One of the girls, Jamie, had the locker next to his, and flirted casually whenever they met, but the rest were, essentially, strangers. Ryan realized that they would have heard about the accident—it would be common Harbor gossip-but they wouldn't know or care about anything that really mattered.

"Atwood!" Eric called again from the crowd of kids. "What do you say? We got room for one more!"

"And we're a lot more fun than anybody up there," Jamie added, waving a joint-holding hand like a semaphore, then taking a drag and blowing him a kiss along with the smoke.

It was a bad idea. Maybe even a dangerous idea. Ryan knew it, but he didn't care. He was tired of being alone, tired of feeling alone even when he was with the people he cared about the most.

He slid off the retaining wall and started down the driveway.

_TBC_


	14. Chapter 12

I still own nothing.

**Collision Course Chapter 12**

"I'm bored," Seth announced. He waited for a response, and when none came, repeated emphatically, "Bored. About to go out of my fucking mind, capital B-ored, bored. So . . . any ideas? Anything? Anybody?"

He stared at his silent audience. "Yeah, didn't think so. What can you expect from a bunch of mythical animals?"

Seth had taken refuge in what appeared to be Caitlyn's unused playroom. It was dominated by an impressively large collection of unicorns. Seth had already inspected all them closely.

That killed five and a half minutes.

"You know what you are?" Seth demanded, plopping back into a chair by the window. "Deformed Captain Oatses. Horses with horns. That is just wrong. And why does Caitlyn have a unicorn collection anyway? I thought she was supposed to be a pony person."

Seth drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and let another long minute elapse. Then he declared dramatically, "Ennui. I am suffering from an advanced case of ennui. Know what that means, guys? It means, in case I haven't mentioned it, that I am at a fancy-ass party and I am fancy-ass bored."

Over the years, Seth had devised a repertoire of Ways to Pass the Time Alone at Parties, but he hadn't needed any of them since he met Ryan. Looking back, Seth realized that none of those activities had been much fun anyway, but tonight they were completely worthless; lack of use had atrophied all his coping-with-loneliness muscles.

Now, after twenty-three minutes of solitude, Seth was cramping up. He dropped his head over the back of the chair, and launched into his best Ryan Atwood imitation.

Seth began to brood.

Specifically, he re-examined the events of the day, probing them for clues. He wanted to decipher Ryan's frame of mind, but Seth's trusty mood-meter hadn't picked up any clear signals since they'd left for the party. Ryan wasn't really acting upset. He just seemed preoccupied. Pensive.

Or maybe distant.

Seth couldn't decide if that was better or worse than outright anger.

Maybe if his reconnaissance mission that afternoon had succeeded, he would have some solid information; unfortunately, the operation had tanked.

After Ryan had come up to get his binder, Seth waited a couple hours. Then he casually wandered downstairs, telling himself he needed food, but making a totally unnecessary detour that took him past Ryan's room. If his mom had already given Ryan his letter, Seth hoped to do some sort of damage control. And if she hadn't . . . well, maybe he could cement the progress he and Ryan had made, shore it up so it could withstand another reminder of the Great Seth Screw-Up.

Last night Ryan's door had been open. Now, despite all the war-is-ending signs, it was closed.

Seth looked at it, frowning. He imagined all the doors in the house were the pretty much identical, but this one looked particularly thick and solid. And opaque.

No way to see through it.

Seth squinted hard, but he couldn't summon any x-ray vision.

He had stood outside the door for a few minutes, but no sound escaped from within and finally the heavy, forbidding silence sapped the last of Seth's courage. His fist, poised to knock, fell to his side, and he had slumped back to his room.

Seth pulled abstractedly at his curls, frowning. He was sure things would have gone differently if only Ryan had still been in the pool house. The pool house had windows. It was welcoming, and open, and held memories, echoes of conversations, hours of Seth-Ryan time.

Seth missed the pool house.

He wondered if Ryan did too. After all, the pool house was Ryan's sanctuary. It was his retreat, his personal fortress of solitude.

"There's an idea," Seth murmured. "Maybe I should talk to Mom about letting Ryan move back. I mean, shit, he'll never ask if he thinks the idea might upset her. It probably will too. I think she kind of likes the whole under-one-roof deal."

Seth thrummed his feet against the baseboard, nodding.

He could do it.

He could make the suggestion, take the heat, wheedle and cajole and pester until his mother saw the wisdom of his arguments . . . or until he simply wore her down. Seth considered himself a master at wearing people down.

And then he could give Ryan the pool house back. And Ryan would be . . . well, not grateful—Seth didn't want him to feel grateful—but glad, maybe.

Glad would be good.

Or . . . would Ryan believe Seth was interfering in his life? Making decisions for him again. And be angry, with him. Again.

Angry would absolutely not be good.

God, it was complicated, trying to consider other people's feelings.

Seth groaned.

He was tired of silence, tired of keeping himself company, really tired of trying to figure things out alone.

He needed people. Specifically he needed his erstwhile best friend, but he'd settle for Summer . . . Summer, definitely, but even Zach, Alexhell, anybody who was willing to talk to him.

Hell, even insults and criticism would be better than the silent treatment from mythical animals.

Seth plastered on an all-purpose grin. He checked himself in the mirror—teeth clean, dimples still endearing, hair artfully disarrayedthen meandered downstairs and into the thick of the party. All the faces in the foyer were unfamiliar, but Seth thought he could see Zach looming across the hall, and if Zach was around, Summer had to be nearby.

Unfortunately, Seth also recognized the elegantly tailored back of a man standing near the edge of the room.

Caleb.

"Shit," Seth muttered to himself. "What is the guy, fucking MasterCard? He's everywhere I want to be tonight."

Seth analyzed the situation. His grandfather was deep in conversation. As long as he was stealth, Seth figured he would be able to slip by unnoticed. Nodding to himself, he started to glide silently across the room when the sound of his own name stopped him.

"So, Cal, any chance of Seth joining the family business?"

"Seth?" Caleb snorted. "He would have to grow up first, Mark. It pains me to admit this but my grandson is hopelessly immature. Still reading comic books and drawing pictures of superheroes. I don't think he has the mind for the Newport Group. He's all Cohen—no Nichol in him at all as far as I can see."

Seth bristled. He ached to shout "Thank God!" but that would reveal his presence and leave him open for a direct assault.

On balance, not a good trade-off.

"Really?" Mark asked. "That's odd. Kirsten told me he has tremendous aptitude, real architectural talent. She said he single-handedly saved the renovation of their home."

Even from behind, Seth could see his grandfather's body stiffen. "She wasn't talking about my grandson."

"I'm sorry. I was sure she said her son."

"Her foster son." Caleb emphasized "foster" scornfully. "The boy who lives in their pool house, because my bleeding-heart son-in-law wouldn't let the system do the job that it's designed to do."

"Ah, I see." Mark swirled the ice in his drink with an awkward smile. "That's a damned shame, Cal. Kirsten showed me some of his drawings. Rough work, untrained, but definitely something there. Sure you won't want to bring him into the company after he finishes college?"

"I doubt if that boy will make it through college," Caleb sneered. "Or even into college for that matter. As for the Newport Group, I reserve nepotism for people who are actual family members, not opportunists pretending to be something they're not."

Mark gave an uncomfortable laugh and ran a finger under his collar.

Caleb swallowed the last of his drink. "It is some kind of cosmic joke, though," he mused. "The boy who could actually play a part in the family business is a delinquent interloper, while my own grandson can't contribute anything to the Newport Group except a cartoon for the company newsletter . . . Come on, Mark. Suddenly, I need another scotch."

Seth waited to move, seething, until his grandfather disappeared. He'd always known that Caleb regarded him as some feckless, overgrown kindergartener, but hearing his grandfather deride him publicly? That hurt. A lot.

What really fueled Seth's anger, though, wasn't his own humiliation. It was Caleb's callous rejection of Ryan. He acted like Ryan was some near-feral mutt that the Cohens were sheltering because the kennels were too full.

His grandfather, Seth concluded bitterly, was a close-minded hypocrite. And if he just had the courage—maybe of the liquid variety—he would tell him so.

In fact, Seth could identify only one valid point in anything Caleb had said: suddenly he needed another Scotch too.

Of course, Seth hadn't even had one drink yet, so it wouldn't actually be "another." And maybe not Scotch, at least not to start. But it was definitely time for something alcoholic.

Seth surveyed the room for his parents or likely spies who might report back to them, and then nonchalantly plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

It was amazing how much more confident Seth felt with his fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass. He gulped the contents quickly, grabbed another goblet, and emptied it, enjoying the little explosion of bubbles in the back of his throat.

A few more of these, Seth thought, and he might just be brave enough to. . . well, at least to leave the foyer.

Sandy felt like one of those ridiculous bobble-head dolls. His eyes were glazed over, but his head kept nodding and his mouth kept smiling automatically.

Twenty minutes ago, Sandy had found a secluded table where he thought he and Kirsten could sit quietly, until her Caleb-induced agitation subsided. Unfortunately, fifteen minutes ago, Philip Styles, a Newport Group lawyer, had joined them, uninvited. Ever since, he had regaled the Cohens with an endless series of stories, all variations on the same plot: Styles wielding his superior legal skills in a negotiating session (or in court), bringing his opponent to his knees (or, possibly, to tears) and winning (or, occasionally, saving) millions of dollars for the Newport Group.

Whenever he dared, Sandy darted a glance at Kirsten. She appeared engrossed, smiling warmly, asking questions, apparently interested in nothing except Style's current anecdote.

That kind of tact impressed Sandy. It also irritated the hell out of him. Even though he knew Kirsten resented Styles' intrusion as much as he did, she was still making him feel witty and welcome; it would be almost impossible for Sandy to dislodge the man.

Hell, it was almost impossible to interrupt him.

Sandy felt frankly relieved when he heard the trill of Julie's voice above the distant music. If anyone could press a man's mute button, she could.

"Sandy, Kirsten, there you are! Oh, and you're here too, Phil! Just the man I need."

"Julie," Phil said, lumbering to his feet. "You look ravishing as always."

Julie flashed her feline smile and inclined her cheek for Styles' kiss. "And you, Phil, are a darling. Now I do hope Kirsten and Sandy haven't been monopolizing you here all evening." Julie's eyes narrowed when she saw Sandy's sardonic expression, but she continued, her tone effusive. "I was wondering if I could persuade you to spend some time tonight with Roger Cousins? You know, he's representing the Bay Land Initiative, and I thought maybe you could work a little of your magic for us . . .?"

Julie smoothed Phil's lapel, patting his chest in the process, and he flushed. "For you, Julie? Anything . . . Kirsten, Sandy, a pleasure to talk with you."

Sandy waited until the man was out of earshot before muttering, "You mean, talk at you . . . Julie, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I owe you one."

"Yes," Julie agreed sweetly, "you do. Phil is such a bore, isn't he? And aren't you lucky, Sandy? You can pay me back right now because I need a favor from you too."

Sandy glanced at Kirsten. Her polite façade had vanished along with Styles; lines of stress resurfaced around her eyes, and she was twisting her necklace into a tight topaz knot.

"Now?" Sandy objected. "Julie, Kirsten and I were in the middle of a private conversation when Phil joined us."

Julie frowned. "Honestly, Sandy, you and Kirsten can talk . . . or whatever . . . at your own house. This is a party. Kirsten needs to mingle, and frankly, so do you. You don't see Cal and me acting inseparable at parties, do you?"

"No, Julie, I can't say that I do," Sandy conceded dryly. "Not at parties or anywhere else, for that matter. . ."

"What favor, Julie?" Kirsten demanded suddenly. "What do you need Sandy to do?"

Julie's eyes had blazed at Sandy's comment, but she raised her hands in mock-surrender. "It's just a little thing. Sara Edelmann is her. This is the first party she's attended since David died, and she seems so lonely. Maybe you could take her some dessert, Sandy? Dance with her? Try to draw her out a bit? You and Sara have so much in common."

Sandy raised his eyebrows. "So much in common? You mean because she's Jewish?"

"No," Julie protested. "Well, not just that. Remember, Sara is originally from New York, Sandy. Just like you."

"Right," Sandy drawled. "Syracuse. The Bronx. We definitely have New York in common."

Julie closed her eyes, shaking her head sadly. "I just want Sara to have a good time tonight. But if you don't care about the poor woman's feelings . . ."

"So it's Sara's feelings you care about? Not the Newport Group shares that she inherited from Dave."

"You know, Sandy," Julie retorted, her tone clipped, "it is possible to care about both. And doing what's best for the company does not make me a bad person. Kirsten, please tell your husband . . ."

Kirsten sighed wearily. "Sandy, it's fine. I'm fine. You go talk to Sara."

"All right, sweetheart. If you're sure . . ." Sandy said doubtfully.

"I am."

"Oh good," Julie said, tossing her hair back. "See how simple that was? Now everybody's happy."

"Well, we know that's not true," Sandy murmured, after Julie blew them each a kiss and left. "Kirsten, are you really all right? Because I know how much your father upset you."

Kirsten smiled wryly. "He's my dad. He's done the same thing my whole life. I should be used to it by now. It's just that when he attacks the boys . . ."

"I know. Listen, honey, I won't be long. And we'll all go home soon," Sandy promised, leaning down to embrace her.

"Good," Kirsten whispered. She clutched his hand for a moment, her fingers icy. "Sandy? Could you keep an eye out for Ryan and Seth? I haven't seen either one of them since we got here. And I know it's silly, but I'd feel better if I knew where they were."

"I'm sure they're fine," Sandy declared confidently. "But I'll look around for them."

"Thank you." Kirsten gave Sandy's hand a final squeeze before releasing it. "Oh, and sweetheart," she added, "If you do see the boys . . . could you keep my father away from them?"

Sandy nodded. "He won't get within fifteen feet. Trust me."

Kirsten's precarious emotional state had concerned him so much that Sandy hadn't considered how Ryan and Seth were coping with the party. But Kirsten's apprehension was contagious. Sandy suddenly realized that except for a fleeting glimpse of Ryan, he hadn't seen the boys either, not with their friends, not together, not even loitering alone at the edges of the crowd.

Kirsten wasn't the only one who would feel better knowing where they were.

And what, exactly, they were doing.

"So, Atwood, rigor mortis set in up there yet? You'd think a woman as hot as Julie Nichol could throw a party that wasn't stone-cold dead." Eric laughed derisively. "Maybe it's because she married a living fossil. Whaddya think?"

Ryan raised an eyebrow and slouched onto a bench a little distance from the knot of kids. He didn't answer.

"Oh, fuck, hold on . . . Caleb Nichol. Kirsten Nichol. Kirsten Cohen. Hey, no offense, man. I forgot he's like practically your family or something, right?"

"Not my family at all," Ryan said tersely. "So, do you guys have any more . . . hell, anything?" His gesture indicated the beer, the weed, widened to include whatever else might be available.

"Shit, yeah. Hey, Justin," Eric called. "Bring us a couple beers, okay?. . . So what's going on, Atwood? I thought you were all about clean living this year. I mean, good grades, good girls . . . You know, a regular reformed character."

Ryan shrugged. "So now I've de-formed."

Jamie took a last deep drag of her joint and passed it to Eric. "Where is your girl anyway?" she asked, sliding onto the bench beside Ryan. Her words were slightly slurred. "I haven't seen Lindsay around tonight. And I'd expect her to be, like, glued to you . . . I know I would be."

An image of Lindsay pushing him away, eyes fearful and confused, flashed through Ryan's mind. He shook his head, trying to dispel it, or at least replace it: Lindsay smiling trustfully, Lindsay nestled against his chest, Lindsay blushing through a torrent of words that ended in a breathless kiss.

It didn't work. Ryan couldn't make that girl appear.

"She didn't come."

Jamie sucked her lip and looked at him speculatively. "Too bad," she said. "Or maybe . . . not?"

"Here you go, Atwood."

Eric passed Ryan a beer and his fingers closed gratefully around the neck of the bottle. He lifted it with a caustic half-smile. "Welcome to the dark side," he murmured.

Before Ryan could tip the beer into his mouth, Jamie's hand closed over his and pulled the bottle away.

"Ew, don't, Ryan" she said, shuddering so that her breasts shimmied under her gold mesh top. "Don't drink that. I cannot stand the taste of beer."

Ryan cocked his head quizzically. "You're not the one drinking it."

"No," Jamie conceded, her voice throaty and suggestive. "But I could still be the one tasting it."

Ryan's gaze skimmed over her, half sultry, half bemused. He made no move to reclaim the drink as Jamie passed it back to Eric. "How do you figure?"

"Like . . . this?"

Jamie slid her tongue lightly, experimentally around Ryan's mouth, then between his lips until they opened. Instantly, all subtlety disappeared. Her kiss was insistent, a little sloppy and bruising, like a fuck with no foreplay. For a moment, Ryan didn't respond. His brain was still engaged, and it was sending urgent warnings, sirens wailing, lights flashing, flares igniting behind his eyes.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong.

Then the system overloaded. His mind shut down and Ryan surrendered himself to the moment, to Jamie's expert tongue and teeth. His hand came up, clutching the back of her head roughly, fingers tangling in her short, dark hair. Jamie gasped into his mouth, her breath redolent of smoke and weed and no other girl Ryan had ever known.

Behind them, Ryan dimly heard Eric whistle with mocking admiration.

"Impressive technique there, man. Looks like my beer-breath and I have been replaced. Guess I'll just let you and Jamie enjoy a . . . private party. When you're not . . . busy . . . feel free to join the rest of us. Jamie knows where we'll be." He signaled to his friends and they shambled off behind the bushes.

Ryan's eyes had closed, but they fluttered open and he withdrew slightly from Jamie, squinting after Eric's retreating figure. "You and Eric . . . you were together?" he asked, his voice raspy.

Jamie shrugged, unconcerned. "Only for the last ten minutes or so." Her nose wrinkled. "That's all I could take. He did taste like beer. You, on the other hand . . ." She kissed Ryan again hungrily. "Don't."

"Only because somebody stole my drink."

"You don't need it. I've got something better." Jamie pulled a baggie out of her tiny gold purse. "You do smoke, don't you, babe?"

Ryan nodded. "Not recently, but . . . yeah. Sure." To himself, he mumbled bitterly, "Why not?"

"Good. See, better smelling, better tasting, better buzz. Actually, I can offer you lots of things better than beer, Ryan." Jamie stood up, wedged one leg between his and faced him, her knee pressed against his crotch. "First, though, we have got to get rid of this thing."

She flipped the end of Ryan's tie disparagingly.

"Don't like the color?"

"Don't like ties, period."

Jamie began to undo the knot, and suddenly Ryan's brain began functioning again. He remembered Sandy adjusting the tie earlier that evening and smiling at him warmly, even proudly, urging Ryan to hold on to his dreams. Looking at him like a father with unspoken, unconditional love.

Ryan couldn't recall ever seeing that expression in the eyes of his own father—hell, not even his mother—but somehow he recognized it on Sandy's face.

He tried to fix the image in his mind, but it flickered, then faded completely. Ryan started to push Jamie's hands away, his lips even formed the word "Stop," but her mouth swallowed the sound, and then her fingers abandoned the tie. They slid under Ryan's collar, circled, slow and sensual, around his neck, and finally up behind his ears, rubbing and scratching and erasing his doubts, his loyalties, every coherent thought.

All that remained was intense, visceral need.

"Ties are just silly," Jamie purred. "And they hide one of my favorite parts of the body." She unbuttoned Ryan's shirt to mid-chest and leaned forward. "Right . . . here," she whispered, sinking her tongue into the hollow at the base of his throat.

His head dropped back and Jamie worked her way up, sucking the curve of Ryan's Adam's apple, grazing wet over his chin before finding his lips again.

Ryan's mouth felt raw by the time she pulled away.

"No, no beer taste." Jamie sat back on his good leg and licked her lips thoughtfully. "Not sure what it is. Delicious, though . . . I'll figure it out eventually."

Ryan looked up at her, silent, his gaze shadowed and unfocused.

"We'd probably be more comfortable if you got rid of this too," Jamie suggested, fingering his sling. "I mean, you don't have to wear it every minute, do you?"

Ryan inclined his head and let her ease his arm out of the support. His hand dropped to her thigh, automatically sliding underneath the silky fabric that barely covered it.

Jamie squirmed happily under his touch. "So . . ." she murmured, walking her fingers under Ryan's shirt. "I'm thinking, with the sling and the brace and all . . . maybe you have a couple scars somewhere, babe?"

Ryan's expression darkened. "Lots of them," he said, his voice harsh.

Jamie's eyes glittered, excited. "Really? Because I love scars, Ryan. They're all mysterious. And sexy. And a little, I don't know, dangerous. Like stories you tell in the dark, you know?" She pushed back his hair, fingered a mark above his left eyebrow. "There's one," she said, and kissed the spot. "And this little one . . . I've noticed it before." Her lips anointed a tiny blemish over the right side of Ryan's mouth. "Give me enough time, babe, and I bet I can find them all."

Ryan shook his head. "You never will," he warned.

Jamie smiled confidently and snaked her arms around his neck. "Maybe not," she breathed, hot, into his ear. "But I can try."

By the time he finished his third champagne, Seth decided that the drink was unsatisfactory. Too bubbly. Too tickle-y. He needed something serious, something that didn't even resemble a soft drink, if he was actually going to talk to people. Drawing himself up to his full height, Seth marched over to the bar and opened his mouth to place an adult, hard-liquor order.

"Cohen! Don't even think about it!"

Summer's voice immobilized him as if she had caught him in a game of freeze tag.

"Here," she said, thrusting a soda at Seth. "This is what you're drinking tonight."

"Um, Summer, thanks for the concern and all, but I'm just a teeny bit thirstier than that." Seth set the glass on a nearby table and swiveled back to the bar. He ignored Summer, which was difficult since she began plucking his sleeve and then signaling over his head. "All right, my good man. I'll have a . . . um, a scotch and water. Twenty-one year old scotch if you've got it. Twenty-one. Same age as me. Absolutely legal and everything, so no worries here, no-sirree, nada. None. Not a one."

Alex sidled in next to Seth and nodded at the bartender. "Just give him the water part, thanks . . . Nothing better to quench your thirst, Seth . . . Good save, by the way, Summer."

She and Summer each grabbed one of his elbows, and together they walked Seth away from the bar.

"What is this? A tag-team intervention? I haven't even had a drink yet," he protested. "Well, nothing I would really call a drink anyway."

"And that's just the way we're keeping it," Summer replied. "Do you remember what happened the last time you decided to get drunk, Cohen?"

"Uh, not so much. Although I did hear stories. Horrible, scary stories."

"Just be grateful they weren't illustrated. Vomit everywhere, Seth. And I have no intention of cleaning up after you again," Alex declared. "Literally or otherwise . . . Okay, Summer, I've done my part. He's all yours now." She dropped Seth's arm, turned him to face Summer, and strode away.

Seth flashed a wide, goofy grin. "So . . . I'm all yours?" he asked. "Okay . . . works for me. Hug? Hmm? What do you say, Summer? Little hug here?" He opened his arms wide and waited, swaying a little.

"In your dreams, Cohen. It was just a figure of speech." Summer pushed Seth down onto an empty loveseat, and then squeezed next to him. "What were you thinking?" she hissed furiously. "You were going to drink? Doesn't your mouth do enough damage when you're sober? And you're at your grandfather's house, dumbass. Your parents are here!" She rapped Seth sharply on the forehead with her fist.

"Hey!" Seth protested. "Watch it, Summer. You could cause some serious brain damage that way."

"Only if you actually had a brain," Summer retorted. "God! It's like every day you find new ways to be stupid."

"Yeah, well, I like to keep myself on the cutting edge."

Summer glared at him and Seth sighed. "Fine. You're right. You're always right, Summer. I probably shouldn't drink. Alcohol and I? Not exactly kindred spirits . . . See, 'spirits'? Alcohol?" He nudged her shoulder. "Get it?"

"Cohen, stop joking!" Summer ordered. "And definitely stop explaining your jokes."

'Oh. You don't like that either, huh?"

"Nobody does," Summer said firmly. "Just tell me why you're being such an idiot tonight."

Seth visibly deflated. His manic smile vanished and he slumped into the corner of the loveseat. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's just harder being here tonight than I thought it would be."

"Why? You should be used to Newport parties by now."

"Yeah, I am. And what's not to love?" Seth scoffed. "Pretentious music, pretentious food, pretentious people . . ."

"Present company excepted, right?"

"Right," Seth said listlessly. Summer elbowed him and he amended with more energy, "Yeah, right, Summer. You are the exact opposite of pretentious, whatever the opposite of pretentious is."

"Thank you," Summer purred. "It's real. I, Cohen, am real."

"Yeah, only see, you may be real, but you're not really with me."

Summer rolled her eyes. "Duh! Sitting right next to you, Cohen. How much did you have to drink before Alex and I got to you anyway?"

"Not enough. Unfortunately." Seth picked up a glossy Newport Living magazine and began flicking his finger at the picture of Julie on the cover. "See, though. this is like a mercy conversation, Summer. You'll hang around for a few minutes and then you'll be off to play Archie and Veronica with Zach again, and you'll forget all about me."

"I won't. Trust me, I've tried. It doesn't work. I think I need, like, a Vulcan mind-meld or something to erase my memories of Seth Cohen."

Seth's dimples flashed and Summer groaned. "You see? You see what I mean? Pre-Cohen, would I ever have used a Star Wars reference?"

"Trek. Star Trek. And it's touching, even if it's wrong."

"Whatever." Summer flipped her hair behind her ears, stood up and adjusted her skirt. "Okay, Cohen. Real world time. You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start dealing with your problems. Now the gang's outside and I'm heading back there. Oh, and hey, Luke's in town, so he showed up too. Do you want to come with?"

Seth folded the magazine cover in on itself so that it looked as if Julie was cross-eyed. It was a definite improvement. "What? And be the Jughead in the group? Yeah, thanks for the offer, but no."

"Then what are you going to do? Sit here and sulk?"

"Here, in the meet-greet-and-move-on room? No. I'm sure I can find someplace with better sulking atmosphere. Moodier lighting. Maybe some blues playing in the background."

Summer sighed. "I don't get it, Cohen. What's with the self-pity? I expected that you'd be in a good mood tonight. Did you and Ryan fight again or something? Because I seem to remember that when you called and, oh yeah, woke me up, you said things were getting better between you."

"Yeah, but you know the old two steps forward, one step back thing? I think with us it's more like one baby step forward, two giant steps back."

"So, what, you guys haven't been hanging out together?"

Seth hunched his shoulders.

"At all?" Summer's eyes widened with alarm. "Where is Chino anyway? I saw him earlier, but come to think of it, not for quite a while."

Seth shrugged again. "I don't know. Ryan disappeared pretty much the minute we walked in."

"You mean Chino's lost somewhere in this party?" Summer frowned, then pulled Seth to his feet. "Go. Go find him, Cohen. I'd help, but Zach is waiting for me and . . . God, Ryan better not be with that woman again."

"Woman? Ryan was with a woman? What woman?" Seth's eyes lit with interest.

"Never mind. " Summer blew out an exasperated breath. "Honestly, boys! . . . Just go track down Chino, okay? And when you find him, bring him back with you to the terrace. Got that, Cohen? Find. Bring. Terrace. Fast."

"Summer, I'm reasonably sure that Ryan doesn't need a search and rescue party. And if he did, he wouldn't want me running it."

"What Ryan doesn't need is to be alone at a party like this, Cohen. These people eat their young. Believe me, somebody already tried to turn Chino into an appetizer. Be a friend and go find him. Whether he wants to be found or not."

"Be a friend, huh?"

"Right. I just hope you remember how. Now go." Summer placed both hands against the small of Seth's back and shoved. "Cohen!" she ordered when he began to shamble idly away. "Move! I mean it! This is important."

Seth obediently picked up his pace.

Summer's voice called after him. "Remember, no more drinking. And Cohen, warp speed! We're counting on you!"

TBC


	15. Chapter 13

As always, thanks for the thoughtful, encouraging feedback.

Everything belongs to Schwartz & Co. except for Jamie.

This chapter is rated R for language and sexual situations.

**Chapter 13**

Kirsten spotted a vibrant flash of crimson near the pool and hastily retreated deep into a shadowed alcove, but it was too late.

"Oh, Kiki, there you are!" Julie called brightly, gliding over in a swirl of red lace. "Now you're not all by yourself here, are you? Please tell me that you've been mingling and having a good time. I won't have anybody being miserable at my party."

Kirsten sighed.

Miserable might be too strong a word, but she certainly couldn't say she had been enjoying herself. Just minutes ago, she had completed a champagne-fueled tour of the terrace and great room, charming the people most crucial to the Newport Group's continued success. Kirsten had mastered the art of networking years before: an expression of rapt interest, a few flattering comments, some polite questions, and finally a cordial excuse to move on.

It was such a sham.

And tonight, it seemed to be such hard work.

Caleb had spotted her performance and inclined his head appreciatively, raising his glass in a private salute. Kirsten had replied with a curt nod, but she hadn't smiled or returned the toast. The memory of his earlier comments still rankled, and stirred tendrils of worry about Seth and Ryan that twisted menacingly just below the surface, threatening to break through her cool, smooth, social façade.

It had taken her a moment to restore her composure. Finally, satisfied that she had fulfilled her obligation to the company, Kirsten had found a private nook. She had been savoring a brief respite there, soothed by relative silence and a light, benign breeze, until Julie's demanding presence intruded on the moment.

Come to think of it, maybe miserable exactly described how Kirsten was feeling.

Miserable, or just emotionally exhausted.

She closed her eyes for a moment, before replying politely. "You don't have to worry, Julie. You've done a wonderful job making sure all your guests are having a good time. The party's a complete success."

Kirsten hoped that a reference to Julie's hostess duties would encourage her to continue circulating through the crowd, but instead she sank into a nearby chair.

"It is, isn't it?" Julie agreed, surveying the gathering critically. "Although the service has been a tad slow at some of the stations. I must speak to the caterers about that . . . But really, I wasn't concerned about the party, Kirsten. I just hate to see you looking so lonely."

"I'm alone, Julie, not lonely. There's a difference. And Sandy will be back any minute. He's just doing that little favor for you, remember? Helping Sara enjoy the evening?"

Kirsten smiled to herself, remembering the glimpse she had caught of Sandy minutes earlier. Gallant and handsome, he was escorting the elderly Sara Edelmann onto the dance floor. Something about the sight of him bent over the diminutive woman, listening attentively as she spoke, making her laugh, reminded Kirsten why she had fallen in love with Sandy.

He was such a good man, in every sense of the word.

"And so you've just been sitting here by yourself waiting for him," Julie concluded, her tone oozing saccharine sympathy. "Honestly, Kiki, it's so . . . sweet . . . how the two of you like to spend so much time together. But do you really think it's healthy for a husband and wife to be so codependent? Can a marriage really work that way?"

Jolted out of her reverie, Kirsten couldn't help herself. "First, of all, I have not just been sitting here waiting for Sandy," she snapped. "And secondly, I don't know, Juju. What would you recommend to make a marriage work?"

Julie's eyes glinted dangerously. "For a start," she retorted, "having a husband who doesn't embezzle from his clients." Then she collected herself, and gave a mollifying sigh. "Honestly, Kiki, can't we call a truce tonight? I know we don't agree on every little thing, but really, I do think of us as friends. Don't you?" She paused to wave at a passing acquaintance, her smile and red nails both flashing. Then Julie leaned closer to Kirsten. "You know," she murmured confidentially, "you and I set the tone for this family and for the Newport Group. They all look to us, Kirsten. Don't you think we owe it to them to get along, especially in public like this?"

Kirsten nodded, defeated. "I'm sorry, Julie. I've just been a little out of sorts this evening. As soon as Sandy gets back with the boys, we're going to go home."

"So soon? Why? Aren't Seth and Ryan having a good time?" Julie paused and pursed her lips, considering. "You know, I just realized that I haven't seen either of them since you arrived. Where have those two been hiding themselves this evening?"

Kirsten wished she had an answer, and that the phrase "hiding themselves" didn't sound quite so appropriate. And ominous. "It's a large house," she answered vaguely. "They've probably found somewhere to relax and avoid all the boring business conversations."

"Oh, but there are lots of young people here this evening," Julie pointed out. "I made sure to extend invitations to all the appropriate Harbor students. It's just so important that our children make the right connections now, while they're still young. Don't you agree?"

Kirsten started to reply, but then realized that would only prolong the conversation. "Julie," she said wearily, "I know you have things to do tonight. Please don't let me keep you from your other guests."

"That is so thoughtful of you, Kiki. But actually I was hoping to talk to you for a few minutes, and since you're waiting for your men to show up . . . well, what better time?" Julie signaled a waiter for a drink and relaxed, easing her feet out of her backless sandals. "Now that everybody knows the Newport Group is back in force, I've come up with the most marvelous public relations ideas to give us a fresh new image. I can't wait to run them by you."

"And I'm sure they'll be . . . very creative," Kirsten replied prudently. "But Julie, this is a party. Why don't we save specific business discussions for the office?"

"Really? So you're going to start coming back to the office? You know, Kiki, Caleb is getting a teensy bit upset that you're taking such a long leave of absence."

Kirsten's social smile froze. "It's been two weeks. And it's not even a leave of absence. I've been working at home, which Dad knows perfectly well. He and I have already discussed this, thank you."

"Oh, of course." Julie placed a perfectly manicured hand on her chest, shaking her head contritely. "I didn't mean to imply that you're not carrying your weight, even though this is an absolutely crucial time for the company and we really need everybody's best efforts. I'm sure Caleb knows that you're doing . . . well, all you can under the circumstances."

"Julie," Kirsten said, her voice clipped and carefully controlled, "I was helping to build the Newport Group while you were still filling your days with tanning bed sessions and visits to your masseuse. Or masseur. Now, Sandy will be back any moment, and you and I can continue our business discussion some time when we can both devote our full attention to it. So why don't you do what you do best? We're in negotiations for a development deal with Eugene Riley, aren't we? Well, there he is, all by himself over by the dessert table. I'm sure he would appreciate your . . . charm and stimulating company."

Julie sighed and patted Kirsten's hand benevolently. "This has been such an upsetting time for you, hasn't it? I know it's just the strain and anxiety talking. Don't worry. I won't hold anything you've said against you." She raised her voice and called flirtatiously. "Gene? Would you be an absolute darling and get one of those luscious cream puffs for me? I'll be right over." Julie slipped her shoes back on and stood up. Her perfume enveloped Kirsten as she leaned over and whispered, "And now I'm off to do what I do best."

"Cal!" Sandy exclaimed heartily, breezing into the center of a group of perfectly tailored men. He looped his arm around his father-in-law's shoulders. "I should have known I'd find you holding court like this. Gentlemen, you don't mind if I borrow Caleb for a few minutes, do you? Family business."

Without waiting for a reply, Sandy pulled Caleb into a secluded corner of the room.

"That was extremely rude, even for you Sanford," Caleb snapped. He yanked himself out from under Sandy's arm and readjusted his jacket. "I'll thank you to behave with some semblance of manners while you're on my property."

Sandy nodded in ostensible agreement. "You know, that's a perfectly reasonable request, Cal. I'll try to maintain the proper decorum from now on. And now it's my turn." His voice hardened. "I'll thank you to stop bullying my wife."

Caleb frowned, pulling his cuffs down and then centering his tie. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really?" Sandy asked coolly. "Because I just spent twenty minutes calming Kirsten down. She was shaking when she left you, Cal."

Caleb gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "I don't see why. We had a simple conversation, that's all."

"A simple conversation," Sandy mocked. "Let me tell you what Kirsten got out of this simple conversation. One, you want to ambush Seth so that you can practice your drill sergeant routine on him, and no doubt make him feel like shit . . . excuse me, dirt . . . in the process. Face it, Cal; you don't understand anything about your grandson because you've never taken the time to get to know him. And that is completely your loss . . ."

"Don't be ridiculous. I know Seth very well . . ."

Sandy raised an admonishing hand. "Please, Cal. Interrupting someone is rude. I'm sure you know that. And I hadn't finished. Now, where was I? Oh yes . . . Two, you don't think Kirsten is contributing to the Newport Group, despite the fact that even when she's working at home, she's the most effective, reliable member of your entire staff. That includes you and your trophy wife, by the way. Three, you accuse Ryan of using his injuries as emotional blackmail, when the truth is, the kid never complains, and has done his damndest to take full responsibility for the accident. Have I left out anything?"

"I simply expressed concern for my family. I don't know how Kirsten could misinterpret that."

Sandy heard his name called, slapped on a quick smile, waved a greeting, and then turned back to Caleb, his face instantly grim. "Kirsten didn't misinterpret anything. She got your message exactly, Cal. Now you get mine. My wife and my sons are going through a very difficult time. If you make it worse for any of them, you will answer to me. Interpret that however you want."

Sandy started to leave, but he paused when Caleb gave a scoffing laugh. "Sons? You have one son, Sanford."

Sandy wheeled on him. "I had one son. Now I have two. You can accept that or not. It doesn't make a damn bit of difference to me, because frankly, I think our family would be a hell of a lot better off without you. But you are Kirsten's father. Oh, and Lindsay's. So I suggest that you concern yourself with how many daughters you'll have left if you keep acting like the complete ass that you are."

Sandy slapped Caleb on the back, a good-old-boy gesture delivered with a grin for the benefit of anyone watching, but with enough force to knock Caleb slightly off-balance. "Oops," Sandy drawled. "Sorry about that, old man. Sometimes I just don't know my own strength. Well, I'll let you get back to your vassals . . . Great party, by the way."

"Hey, Sum," Marissa called. "Over here." She waved her bottle in the air, beckoning Summer to the table where she sat with Alex, Luke, and Zach.

"Wow, water, Coop? I'm surprised. That's not usually your beverage of choice" Summer observed, sliding into a chair.

"Yeah, well, everybody here works for my Mom," Marissa explained. "She's got spies everywhere, so I thought I'd give sobriety a try for a change."

Alex squeezed her hand. "Marissa," she reproved.

"Kidding!" Marissa exclaimed. "Honestly, everybody needs to lighten up. I do not drink all the time."

Summer opened her mouth to reply, but Zach interrupted hastily.

"Summer? Where's Seth? And Ryan? I thought you went to find them so they could join us."

"Yeah," Luke added. "Here I came all the way from Portland for this party, and Cohen and Chino are A.W.O.L."

Summer took a miniature éclair off Zach's plate, examined it critically and then put it back. "Custard cream. Hate it," she observed, licking a bit of chocolate off her finger. "And Luke, by the way? Bullshit. You came from Portland to visit your mom and brothers. You only came from her house to this party. That's barely two miles. Anyway, we did find Cohen. Alex, you didn't tell them?"

Alex shrugged and rolled her eyes. "Seth," she reported coolly, "was not trying sobriety."

"Oh man," Zach groaned. "That guy does not handle pressure well. So what? He's off revealing private information and destroying relationships? Or maybe puking someplace?"

"No, he's not off 'puking someplace,' Zach," Summer answered impatiently. "And also, ew for the visuals. Gross."

"So why didn't you bring Seth back with you? I thought you wanted to try some big reconciliation thing," Marissa said. "Although I don't really know if I'm ready to be friends with him again. What he did to Ryan was just so vicious . . ."

"Marissa," Alex argued. "Look, I was disappointed in him too, but come on, you know Seth's not vicious. He's a really sweet guy, deep down."

Marissa pursed her lips dubiously. "How deep do we have to go?"

Luke snorted, and promptly choked on his mouthful of soda. "Hey, Marissa with a sense of humor. Who knew? But not when I'm drinking, girl, okay?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Although, I've got to say, I agree with you. I mean, fuck, Seth spends the entire summer with my dad and me because Ryan went back to Chino and he can't deal with Newport without his best friend around. Then he pulls a shit stunt that he's gotta know will piss off Chino big time. How stupid is that? And if there's 'sweet' in there, I'm missing it."

"No, guys, I know what Alex is talking about," Zach interjected earnestly. "I've had problems with Seth too, you know, because of . . ."

"You dating Summer," Luke concluded.

Zach nodded. "Right. Because of Summer and me. And once in a while, he's gotten a little, well, manic, and asked questions that are none of his business. It's like the guy gets so caught up in what he wants that he becomes oblivious to other people's feelings sometimes. I guess that's what happened with him and Ryan. But you know Seth's really not a bad person."

"Well, maybe not," Marissa conceded. "But the effect is the same as far as I'm concerned."

Summer made a whooshing sound, arched one hand and ran rippling fingers under it. "What?" she demanded, when everyone stared at her in confusion. "Water under the bridge, people. Time to move on."

Marissa leaned back in her chair and smoothed her skirt over her lap. "Fine," she said shortly. "I'll try. But how are we supposed to have this whole friendship-reunion thing? Seth and Ryan aren't even here."

"They should be soon," Summer predicted. "Chino is doing some sort disappearing act, but I sent Cohen to find him and bring him back." She lifted Zach's wrist and checked his watch. "They'd better hurry, though. Look, guys, I'll be right back. When Cohen and Ryan show up, do not, I repeat, do not let them get away. You can handle that, can't you, Luke? Keep them right here—especially Chino. I'm just going to make a phone call.

Finding Ryan proved to be remarkably easy.

Seth figured the best thing to do was to start looking as far away from the center of the festivities as possible and then work his way back in. As soon as he neared the turn-in to the estate, he spotted Ryan. He was leaning against a post at the bottom of the driveway, his jacket and tie off, his shirt rumpled, three buttons undone, his sling dangling around his neck, and his eyes apparently closed. The telltale debris of a private party, items definitely not supplied by Julie's catering company, surrounded him.

Murmurs of conversation and laughter drifted from behind the nearby bushes, indicating that the party-goers had just shifted location, but Ryan himself appeared to be alone, doing nothing at all.

At least at the moment.

Seth couldn't help wondering exactly what had happened before he arrived. He hoped the clues were misleading, because frankly, they were pretty damned incriminating.

Taking a deep breath, Seth coughed to announce his arrival.

Nothing. Ryan didn't even stir.

Seth tried again, clearing his throat. "Um . . . hey," he said weakly.

Ryan turned his head an inch, blinking without recognition.

Seth waved a hand and pointed to himself. "Seth?" he prompted. "Seth Cohen? Remember me?"

Ryan nodded, his lips twitching into the slightest hint of a smirk. "Seth. Yeah. Hey."

Seth smiled, relieved. "So, Ryan, found you. Not that you were hiding or anything, unless you were, which is entirely possible, because I know I was earlier, but anyway . . .yeah, so what are you doing? You brooding alone here, man?"

Ryan shot Seth a sideways glance, then resumed staring pensively into the distance.

"Yeah, you're brooding . . . Now see, I would have thought that would be my thing tonight. I mean, most of the charter members of the Seth Sucks Society are present and accounted for up at the house. Although I will say that I actually had a conversation with Summer and Alex tonight. Okay, yeah, it was more of a lecture, but still, it involved actual talking and even some touching. Well, you know, not that kind. More along the lines of a Save Seth from Himself death grip, but still . . ."

Ryan glared again, and Seth sighed.

"Yeah, got it . . . I'm doing the 'All About Me' thing again. And talking too much. I think I'll just sit over here and . . . shut up now."

He started to move away, but then Ryan lifted his hand to his mouth and took a deep drag and Seth caught both the movement and the aroma.

"Dude, the fuck? You're smoking? You're smoking marijuana. . .? I knew I smelled it, but I thought those guys by the bushes . . . Shit, Ryan. What the hell are you thinking?"

Ryan shrugged. "It's medicinal," he said.

"Medicinal?"

"Herbal remedy. I had a headache. Now I don't."

"Yeah, but no, man, you can't. The parents are here." Seth realized that Summer had just given him the same warning, but he was too upset to enjoy the irony. "You think they aren't going to know? Dad went to Berkeley, dude. Berkeley. I think the school logo is a bong. Hell, and Summer and Alex were on my case just because of a few drinks . . . Seriously, man, Dad is all 'Do as I say, not as I do'or, you know, didabout drugs. He does not play. You have got to get rid of that, Ryan. Now."

Instead Ryan tilted his head back and took another long pull. "No," he said as he exhaled. "It helps."

"Helps? Helps what? It'll help get you grounded until you're thirty. Fifty, maybe. And can you imagine what my grandfather will say if he finds out that you're doing this here? At his fucking house? Shit, dude, forget what he'll say. Think what he'll do. There could be a squad car and Miranda rights involved. Ryan, come on, you know what grandpa thinks about you. He's just been waiting for a chance to prove he's right. Don't give him any ammo, man. He will so use it."

Ryan's jaw tensed at the mention of Caleb, but he continued to smoke.

That wasn't the response Seth wanted. He thought for a moment, then tried a different approach. Nudging Ryan in the side, he grinned and wheedled, "Come on, bro, leave the substance abuse to the experts, like Marissa . . ."

Ryan shook his head slightly, looking at Seth from under his brows.

"Yeah, see, the Atwood glare? A lot more effective when you can actually focus."

Seth reached abruptly for Ryan's arm, stumbling when Ryan jerked away.

"Don't, Seth," he growled. "Just leave me alone and go back to the party, okay?"

"No, man. Not okay. Not without you," Seth argued.

He set his feet for another attempt to seize the joint, wondering if he should go for surprise attack or sheer force. Unfortunately, even without the full use of both arms, Ryan had the edge in the sheer force department. Seth wondered exactly how much Ryan would have to smoke before he'd mellow enough to lose his strength advantage. Then, of course, there was the other problem; if Seth waited for Ryan get that high, it would pretty much defeat the whole purpose of taking the weed away from him.

Time, Seth concluded, was of the essence. He decided to try subterfuge once, and then resort to a surprise attack.

"Ryan, look, it's pretty much time to leave anyway. Why don't we just go get you something to eat first?" Seth attempted to pitch his voice somewhere between entreating and hypnotic. "You're hungry, right? You've got to be hungry, so we'll just find the dessert table, okay? Chocolate goodness, dude, just waiting for you . . ."

He tried to catch Ryan's hand on a downswing, but wound up grabbing air and coughing as he swallowed the secondhand smoke.

"Fine, so you don't want any munchies right now. Well, okay. Then we'll just . . . yeah . . ." Seth was at a strategic standstill. His voice trailed off and he glanced nervously over his shoulder, hoping for reinforcements—Summer, for example, Summer showing up now would be good—but afraid he might see someone else coming instead.

Almost anybody else could be disastrous.

"Man, you have got to stop. Now. Come on, Ryan. Please. You know, the 'rents will be really upset if they find out you're doing this . . . Especially Mom, " Seth added with sudden and desperate inspiration. "Yeah, think about Mom, Ryan. She's already worried about you. This will just make it worse. You don't want to make things worse for Mom, do you, bro?"

Ryan's breath hissed. He took the joint from his lips, studying it, his eyes cloudy and troubled.

"Kirsten?" he mumbled.

"Yeah, Mom. She would not be cool about this at all, Ryan, herbal remedy or not. So what do you say? Toss the weed and we'll head back to the house, okay? Ryan? How about it, buddy?"

Ryan wavered visibly. Seth mouthed a silent "Yes," and was about to take the joint from his hand when a voice caroled, "Babe, I'm back. And I've got just what we need."

Seth found that he suddenly possessed an unwanted super power. Apparently he could become invisible. Without even trying.

A girl breezed past him as if he didn't even exist and pitched herself against Ryan's chest. She brushed his chin with a condom that dangled from her fingers, completely ignoring Seth as she snaked her arms around Ryan's neck and kissed him, breathing in the smoke from his mouth.

Seth watched, astonished, as, in one instant, Ryan apparently forgot his presence, forgot the threat of discovery, forgot his concern for Kirsten, forgot, as far as Seth could see, everything. Ryan cupped the girl's ass and pulled her closer, molding his body around hers. The girl nuzzled his neck, and Seth noticed for the first time the telltale welts on Ryan's throat. One appeared to be rimmed with tooth marks.

"Holy Hell. You have got to be stoned out of your mind. Ryan, what the fuck are you doing?" Seth demanded. "Who is this? Wait, I'll tell you who it's not. It's not Lindsay. Remember her, dude? Lindsay? Girl? Friend? Specifically, your girlfriend?"

Ryan blinked, and Seth realized just how glazed his eyes were.

Apparently any lucidity and reason Ryan possessed had vanished with the appearance of the condom. "I know it's not Lindsay. Lindsay's . . . not here," he slurred. "'s Jamie. Jamie," he added in a parody of polite introduction, "this is Seth. Seth, Jamie."

The girl pivoted in Ryan's arms, pulling his hand up to her breast as she turned.

"Ry-an," she pouted. "I don't want an audience tonight. Or a threesome. I just want you." She pointed her finger at Seth, said with clipped authority, "You, Seth. Go 'way. Now." Her tone changed and she murmured seductively, "Come on, Ryan. We were having fun, remember? Play with me."

Her head lolled back on Ryan's shoulder and she grabbed his hand which was absently fondling her breast, slithered it through her cleavage, along her throat and up to her mouth. Then she bit his thumb hard, thrust it through her lips and started to suck. Seth grimaced, pretty sure that there might be blood involved. Jamie's hips ground slowly against Ryan's groin, and the hand that wasn't holding his rubbed her own crotch, keeping rhythm with her pelvis.

The whole time, she kept her eyes fixed challengingly on Seth.

He stared at Ryan, whose body appeared melded to Jamie's. Seth felt as if he had stepped into some weird alternate universe, the way his comic book heroes often did, where the normal laws of nature didn't apply and people weren't who they appeared to be.

It didn't help that Seth was slightly drunk and that, despite himself, he was becoming aroused just watching. He forced his hormones into submission and tried to assess the situation.

Something was seriously wrong.

Ryan—and Seth absolutely knew this—might drink, he might smoke, he might smoke weed, hell, he might do any number of things not sanctioned by the parental units, but he would never do any of those things at a party he was attending with Kirsten and Sandy. And he would never cheat on Lindsay, not here, not anywhere.

It was like the hurt, anger and frustration of the past few weeks had combined with marijuana and Jamie's blatant sexuality to produce sort of chemical change in Ryan. All that corrosive emotion had transformed him from the inside out and short-circuited the brain cells that would remind him who he really was and where he belonged.

In the comic books, those alternative universes usually had some secret portal. Seth was trying to figure out how to access it and what he could possibly say or do to pull Ryan back to reality with him when he heard the sound of his father's voice. It was coming from around the curve in the driveway and getting closer by the moment.

"Ryan? Hey, kid, you down there? Ryan? Look who decided to come and join us tonight."

Seth made an instant decision. From somewhere, he summoned his second superpower of the evening, a strength based on sheer surprise. He grabbed Jamie with one hand and wrenched the joint away from Ryan with the other just as Sandy appeared, bringing with him a glowing, golden Lindsay.

"Dad . . . Lindsay. Hey," Seth said weakly. "This is a surprise . . ."

Sandy's eyes fastened on the joint Seth was dropping to the ground, narrowed as they raked back up to the stunned-looking girl wrapped tightly in his arms. His gaze shifted to Ryan, took in his disheveled clothes and discarded sling, saw how he swayed slightly, eyes closed, biting his lower lip.

"A surprise," Sandy repeated coldly. "Yes, I'd certainly say so."

TBC


	16. Chapter 14

None of the OC characters are mine. Jamie is, but really, who else would want her? 

Thanks for the feedback. It keeps me writing.

Collision Course, Chapter 14 

"Hey," Jamie slurred, writhing away from Seth and slapping at him ineffectually. "Hands off, ass. Who do you think you are, anyway? And whaddya doin' wasting that? That's good stuff. Ryan, help me look." She dropped to her knees and began combing the grass searching for the discarded joint. "Ryan, come on babe, I need you . . ." She nudged his foot, then ran a hand up his leg suggestively, but except for a small shudder, Ryan didn't respond.

Seth shot a look at his father and Lindsay. He blew out a defeated breath, seeing shocked realization filter across Lindsay's face, while Sandy's settled into an expression of angry disappointment.

"Um, all this? Really not what it looks like, guys" Seth said weakly. His chagrined smile dissolved under the heat of his father's furious eyes.

"Not one more word, Seth." Sandy put a protective hand on Lindsay's arm. "Honey, maybe you should go on back to the house," he suggested quietly.

Lindsay shrugged him off, shaking her head. She covered her mouth for a moment, swallowing hard, and walked over to Ryan. He backed a half step away, averting his eyes, and putting out a hand in self-defense or in warning. Lindsay's breath caught. She reached out, carefully rearranged the fabric of his sling and eased Ryan's arm back into it. Her fingers jumped briefly when they brushed the marks on his throat, as if they burned her, and she never looked into his face.

"You're supposed to wear this all the time, remember," she said tonelessly. "At least until your check-up next week."

Ryan's eyes flashed up to meet hers and then fell immediately. "Lindsay . . ."

Her lips crimped and she blinked rapidly. "You're right, Sandy. I'd better get back to the house. I just dropped by the party to make sure you were okay, Ryan, but I guess . . . I shouldn't have worried."

"Lindsay . . ." Ryan repeated.

She thrust his crutch at him. "Oh, and this . . .Sandy and I found it by a bench. I guess you didn't need it. For what you were doing down here."

When she turned to go, Lindsay stumbled and Ryan instinctively reached out to steady her. She yanked her arm away, but Sandy grabbed Ryan's wrist and held it.

"You," he said grimly, "leave her alone. I'm going to make sure Lindsay has someone drive her home. Then I'm going to find Kirsten and tell her we're ready to leave. You both," he emphasized the word with a punishing glare that sliced from Ryan to Seth, "stay right here. Do not move until I get back. Do you understand?"

Both boys gave the barest of nods. Seth started to say something, but Sandy warned, "Don't. Just. Don't." His tone softened and he asked gently, "Lindsay, would you wait for me, please? Just give me a minute here?"

"You don't have to . . ." Lindsay began, her voice faint and reedy. She kept her back turned to Ryan.

"No, honey, I don't want you going back to the party by yourself." Sandy waited for Lindsay to nod before picking up a discarded beer bottle.

"Very nice, gentlemen. And which one of you was responsible for this piece of litter?"

Ryan shook his head mutely, but Seth waved his hands in denial. "No, Dad, that? Definitely not ours."

"So you weren't drinking? Either of you? Seth?"

"Well, not beer . . ." Seth said, before catching himself and muttering, "Shit. Totally TMI."

"That's the problem with talking as much as you do, son," Sandy observed with ironic satisfaction. "Sometimes the truth just slips right out." He turned his attention to Jamie, who had recovered the joint and was sitting back on her heels, brushing it off. "And as for you, young lady. You're not my responsibility, but I strongly suggest that you rejoin the people you came here with, or just go home. Either way, when I get back I do not want to find you here." He swiped the joint from Jamie's hand as she lifted it to her lips, snapping sarcastically "Don't Bogart it."

"Oh? You want?" Jamie asked, confused.

"I want," Sandy mocked. He shredded the paper, letting its contents spill as he walked away, his other arm sheltering Lindsay. She huddled close beside him, looking small, vulnerable, and somehow dim, as though a light inside her had been snuffed out.

Jamie watched them disappear around the curve in the drive, and then turned back, pouting.

"That was not nice," she mumbled. "He is not a nice man, Ryan. Don't like him at all." Then she smiled and licked her lips. "Like you, though." She crawled her way up his body, but Ryan shook her off as soon as she was on her feet. "Hey!" she protested. "'smatter? The party's not over, babe. You and me, we can still have fun."

"No," Ryan said hoarsely. "It's over."

Jamie leaned in to nip his ear. "You sure?" she murmured. "I thought we were just getting started."

"I said it's over."

Seth looked at Ryan, heard the harsh inflection, saw him tense his jaw and decided that, fool's leap or not, it was time to jump in.

"Jamie. . . It's Jamie, right?" he stammered. "Did you come here with somebody? 'Cause I thought I heard somebody calling your name . . . Yeah. Hear that? From over there?" He picked a random direction and pointed.

Jamie squinted along the line of Seth's finger. "Huh? No . . . Oh, shit. Tyler? Shit, I forgot all about Tyler. Ryan, I gotta go, 'kay? See you at school?"

She twined her hands into his hair, tugged his face to hers and tried to kiss him, but Ryan turned his face so that her lips smeared his cheek instead. "Well, fine, then," Jamie sulked before she stumbled off, calling "Coming, Ty. I'm coming. Don't yell."

"See you at school?" Seth repeated, staring after her. "She goes to Harbor? Fuck, Ryan, if she's in your classes, you may need to get a schedule change."

Ryan closed his eyes, swaying slightly. "I didn't hear anybody call her."

"Yeah? Good. Then you're not as stoned as she is," Seth observed. "You know, dude, maybe we should just . . . sit down until Dad gets back. 'Cause I don't know about you but I'm not feeling exactly earthquake proof right now." He took Ryan's arm tentatively and led him a few steps to a carved bench.

Ryan frowned. "I thought Sandy said we weren't supposed to move," he argued, but he collapsed onto the seat anyway.

"See, I'm taking that as a general type of 'stay in the vicinity' order, because to obey it literally? We'd have to stop breathing. And okay, dad's pretty mad, but I don't think he's that angry with us. Yet anyway."

They lapsed into silence. Seth studied his legs, wondering how he'd managed to get a grass stain on one knee when he hadn't been on the ground, and whether his parents would make him pay for the dry cleaning.

Ryan's voice sounded gravelly when he finally spoke.

"Why did you do that, Seth?"

"What? Make believe somebody was calling for Jamie? I just figured she'd . . ."

"No, not that. Why did you try to pretend that Jamie was with you? That you were the one smoking? Why did you do that?"

"Ah," Seth let out a long breath. "I don't know that I can really answer that, Ryan."

"Try."

Ryan's voice was expressionless. Seth couldn't tell if he was upset, grateful, or just curious, so he wasn't sure how to phrase his explanation, whether he should go for minimal damage or maximum effect.

"I just thought . . . you wouldn't want anybody seeing you like that. With, you know, Jamie and the weed and all," he said warily.

Ryan rubbed a hand hard across his forehead, keeping it up to shield his eyes. "Thanks, Seth" he murmured. "For trying to protect Lindsay like that. Thanks."

Seth debated telling Ryan that Lindsay wasn't the person he had been trying to protect. When he had acted, he hadn't registered anything except the sound of his father's voice, and the sick knowledge that Sandy was about to discover Ryan high and, if Seth didn't intercede fast, in mid-fuck, or at least pretty damn close. But Ryan seemed content believing that Seth had acted on Lindsay's behalf, so he let the explanation stand.

"Yeah, well," he said simply, "it would have been more effective if Jamie could have pretended for two minutes that she could stand me having me touch her. Sorry it didn't work."

"Not your fault. You tried."

"So, you know, you don't have to tell me, dude, but why . . .? Marijuana? That girl? Shit, I mean, Newport society parties are brutal and all, but still . . ." Somehow Seth couldn't manage to finish a sentence, but he couldn't let the subject drop either. "Was it because of the letter you got today? 'Cause I heard and fuck, Ryan, I'm really sor . . . I mean, I wish you'd gotten better news, that's all.

Ryan swiped his hand across his cheeks, then brought it back to cover his eyes again. "Not just the letter. It's everything . . . God. Everything is just so fucked up, Seth. I keep thinking it can't get any worse, and then it just . . . does . . ." He shuddered visibly. "I can't believe I did this."

Even though Ryan couldn't see him, Seth turned his face away. "Yeah, well, we all do really stupid things sometimes, Ryan. I mean . . . I know I do."

"Your parents will never forgive me." The words emerged ragged, torn by Ryan's uneven breaths. "Neither will Lindsay."

"No, now see, I think you're wrong about that, Ryan," Seth said earnestly. He turned back and ducked his head, trying to peer underneath the hand Ryan kept protectively across his eyes. "I know you're wrong. I mean, yeah, they'll be pissed—well, there's probably a better way to describe how Lindsay feels, but anyway . . . they're gonna forgive you, Ryan. Because they care about you. And that's what you do when you care about people. You forgive them and, you know, give them a second chance . . ."

There was another silence. Seth knew it was his imagination, but he seemed to hear his own words wafting through the air, looking for somewhere solid to land.

Ryan's voice was thick and muffled when he finally answered. "You think so? Because, Seth . . . facing your parents after this . . . I don't know if I can . . ."

"Well, you don't have to do it alone. We'll face them together, all right? Because you know, Ryan, we learned a long time ago, united we're unstoppable, but apart . . ." Seth shrugged, his voice trailing off uncertainly in the darkness.

Ryan dropped his arm and raised his eyes to meet Seth's, but before he could answer, they heard Sandy's voice.

"Seth! Ryan! Car. Now!"

"I speak Cohense. What he really means is apocalypse now," Seth muttered. "You have the mate to that crutch at home, Ryan? Because I think one of us may need it by the time this evening is over."

"Summer?"

"Lindsay, oh good, there you are!" Summer spun around from the table where she was sitting with Zach, Luke, Marissa and Alex. "You didn't answer your cell, and I've been wondering . . ." She stopped abruptly when she noticed Lindsay's tear-bright eyes, the folded line of her lips, the way her hands twisted the strap of her purse until the fine chain looked ready to snap. "Oh shit," Summer murmured. "Ryan . . .?"

Lindsay swallowed hard and turned away for a moment before facing Summer again. "I have to go home," she whispered plaintively. "I drove here myself, but I don't know if I can . . . and I told Sandy that you would . . . Oh God, I'm sorry, Summer . . . Just . . . forget it, okay?"

"No wait!" Summer caught Lindsay's arm as she started to stumble back toward the house. "I can drive you, Lindsay. It is absolutely no problem at all. Zack . . ."

Lindsay flinched. "Not Zach. Please? Just you." She ducked her head. "I can't face anybody . . ."

"No, I know. It's okay." Summer put her arm around Lindsay's shoulders, shielding her from the curious eyes of all the others. "Zach, I'm going to leave with Lindsay now, okay? You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," Zach said, his voice worried. "Is everything all right, Summer?"

"Oh, sure. Everything's just great. Obviously," Summer snapped sarcastically. Then her face softened. "Sorry. I suppose I shouldn't blame you just because you're one of them . . ."

"Them?"

Summer rolled her eyes meaningfully. "Boys."

Zach looked puzzled, but when he opened his mouth, Luke signaled for silence. "Hey, don't push it, man," he warned. "It's the guilt by association thing."

"Okay," Zach said slowly. "Just . . . drive safe then, Summer. And call me if you need anything."

Summer nodded and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before she grabbed her purse and left.

"You don't even have to tell me what Chino did if you don't want to, Linds. But hey, would you like me to kick his ass for you?" Summer asked as she and Lindsay walked to the car. "Because I so will. And I'll wear really pointy toed shoes to do it too."

Lindsay smiled tearfully and shook her head. "I trusted him, you know?" she admitted, fumbling to pull a tissue from her purse. Her fingers dislodged a small jar, and she watched, sobbing, as it fell and then rolled on the ground. "I trusted him completely."

"I know . . . Lindsay, I'm so sorry I suggested that you come here tonight. God!" Summer exclaimed fiercely. She picked up the jar, looked at it, and then threw it overhand as hard as she could. "Chino said he wanted you here. I swear he did, or I never would have called you."

"It's not your fault, Summer. I guess Ryan just. . . he must have changed his mind after he talked to you." Lindsay pulled her thin shawl tight around her shoulders, shivering despite the warmth of the night.

Summer's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I'll kick his ass just for my own personal satisfaction . . . Keys? . . . Oh good, it's not a stick," she muttered as they got into the car. "I hate driving stick. Linds, I'm sorry, but I was only at your place that one time, at Chrismukkah. You'll have to give me directions."

Lindsay nodded. "Sure." Then she paused, taking a deep, quavering breath. "Actually, Summer? Would you mind if we didn't go right home?" she asked tentatively as they started down the driveway. "Could we make one stop first?"

Summer glanced at her in surprise, but her voice betrayed nothing. "Whatever you want, Lindsay," she agreed equably. She braked at the intersection and her hand hovered over the turn signal. "You just tell me where and we're there."

Kirsten sat huddled in the car, hugging herself and waiting with tight-lipped apprehension for Sandy and the boys to appear.

When he had come to get her, Sandy had worn a jovial smile that she recognized instantly for what it was: a lie. "Honey? What do you say? Ready to leave? I think we've done our time here tonight."

"What's wrong, Sandy?" she'd demanded instantly. "Did something happen? Where are Seth and Ryan?"

Sandy had hooked his hand under her elbow, steering her through the crowd and tossing goodbyes as they went. "I'm just going to round them up," he had claimed. "You wait in the car. We'll just be a couple minutes."

"But why?"

Sandy tapped his watch and opened the passenger door for her. "Ten-oh-five. We were going to be out of here an hour ago, remember? So this was service above and beyond the call of duty, even by Caleb Nichol standards. Honestly, sweetheart, I've reached my Newport party saturation point. Just sit tight while I get the boys."

He had dropped a kiss on her forehead and disappeared.

Now Kirsten shut her eyes, trying not to panic.

She didn't want to be alone in this car. Even though it didn't resemble the Rover, even though she wasn't in the driver's seat, she could feel her throat close, remembering. She knew they weren't there, but she still saw them, taunting her: cracks in the windshield, thin lines ready to shatter and send shards flying everywhere, so that soon there would be no safe place to step, and no one would be able to move at all.

Kirsten urgently wanted Sandy and Seth and Ryan with her, but she dreaded their arrival too. Something was wrong; she could feel it. Maybe the boys had been fighting again. She and Sandy never should have made them come. She had warned Sandy: They were pushing too hard, trying to force a reconciliation, when the whole point of Seth's and Ryan's friendship was their natural connection, a completely unexpected, inevitable and instant bond.

Despite Sandy's veneer of nonchalance when he escorted her to the car, she could see tension in the set of his jaw, feel it in the grip of his fingers on her elbow.

Somehow, she knew, while she was sipping champagne, making meaningless conversation, smiling dutifully at the Newport elite and acting the part of Kirsten Nichol-Cohen, businesswoman/socialite, the fraying threads of her family had unraveled just a little bit more.

Kirsten remembered how, before Seth was born, she would sometimes rub her swelling stomach and think, "I want to keep him inside me forever." Of course, she hadn't meant it; she couldn't wait to see her child, meet him, and watch him grow. But still, there had been something so satisfying knowing that her body, her self, was protecting her baby, keeping him with her, keeping him safe.

It hadn't lasted, of course. Seth was born, life happened, and so did cuts, and scrapes, and hurt feelings and heartaches. She couldn't ward off any of them.

And they just kept coming, sharper, deeper, to Seth and Sandy and lately so many to Ryan. Now Kirsten felt that she didn't know how to protect anybody that she loved, couldn't shelter them anywhere; no place was secure anymore.

"Kirsten? Kiki?"

Kirsten jumped, startled, as her father leaned down and tapped her shoulder through the open window.

"Dad! . . . Sorry, I must have been daydreaming. I didn't hear you."

"You're leaving already?"

"You knew we weren't going to stay long tonight, Dad. I told you that."

"Yes," Caleb conceded, rather impatiently, "but some people just arrived that I really want you to meet. Why don't you send the boys home with the Sandman. I can have someone drive you back later."

"No!" Kirsten's tone was shriller than she intended, and Caleb's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Dad, listen, I already made the rounds this evening. You saw me. And now I'm tired. As soon as Sandy gets here with Seth and Ryan, we're all going home."

"Listen, Kiki, I want to apologize. Sandy told me that what I said earlier this evening offended you."

"Oh? You needed him to tell you that?"

Caleb ignored the hostility in her tone. "I certainly didn't intend to upset you more than you obviously already are. Frankly, Kiki, I'm worried about you. You're letting this whole business between the boys get to you, and it's just not healthy. Look at you. You're pale, you've lost weight, you're exhausted. . ."

"Thanks for your concern, Dad, but I'm fine," Kirsten insisted.

Caleb shook his head with a meaningful frown. "You know, I heard that the . . . that Ryan offered to leave your house." he said thoughtfully. "I'm sure it wouldn't be a difficult process to have him declared an emancipated minor so he could get his own place."

Kirsten's head jerked up. "How did you?" she demanded.

"If it concerns my family, I make it my business to know," Caleb said evenly. "I also heard that you and Sanford turned him down. I think you should reconsider, Kiki. It seems to me that the boy moving out would be in everyone's best interests, including his own. Frankly, I give him credit for coming up with the idea. It's more than I would have expected from him."

"Dad"

"You've done your duty by that boy, not that you ever owed him anything in the first place. But you've gotten him out of jail, given him a place to live, an education. It's time for him to stand on his own."

Kirsten brushed Caleb's hand off her shoulder with icy disdain. "That boy—Ryan—has had to stand on his own most of his life. What he's never had until now is anyone to support him. If you were at all concerned with his best interests, you'd realize that. But you know what? I'm not having this discussion with you, not now or ever. And Ryan is not going anywhere."

"Just hear me out, Kiki," Caleb insisted. "I know you've formed an attachment to . . . Ryan, and you feel some misguided sense of responsibility for him. So I'd be willing to help out. We could find him a reasonable apartment, make sure his medical bills are paid, take care of his tuition so he could finish up at Harbor, and I'd even set up a small trust for him . . . nothing extravagant, but enough so you wouldn't have to worry about him handling the rent after he graduates."

Kirsten clutched a fold of her skirt, feeling her nails rend the thin fabric. She stared at Caleb scornfully. "That is really generous of you, Dad. Be sure to have your attorney arrange everything so you can write it off as a tax deduction. I wouldn't want you to get nothing out of the deal."

Caleb flinched at the cold vehemence of Kirsten's tone. "I'm just trying to look out for my family."

"Didn't I make myself clear before?" she hissed. "Ryan is now part of 'your' family, whether you like it or not."

Caleb raised his hands, placating her. "Fine, Kiki. I apologize. Again. We won't talk about anything else. . .personal . . . tonight, But there are still important business matters we need to deal with, and I just don't see why you can't spare a few minutes . . ."

His voice trailed off, and Kirsten saw him glance down the drive. She craned her neck to look in the rear view mirror and sighed with relief to see them coming: Sandy in front, chin up, lips set firmly, Seth following close behind, with Ryan a few steps back, moving slower, leaning heavily on his crutch. Kirsten could see Seth glancing over his shoulder occasionally as if to check that Ryan hadn't veered off somewhere, or disappeared completely.

Caleb's gaze turned speculative, assessing, as he watched them approach, but all he said was, "I'll call you, Kiki."

Kirsten nodded, accepted his kiss on her cheek without comment, and settled back in her seat, closing her eyes.

All she wanted was to go home.

Go to bed.

Sleep this day into the past.

But when the driver's door slammed shut, Kirsten's eyes flew open, alarmed. The look on Sandy's face and the ominous silence from the back seat when Seth and Ryan got in made her realize that bed and sleep would have to wait.

And any real rest might be impossible.

"Honestly, Mom, I don't know," Marissa insisted irritably. "And it's not really our business anyway, is it? Now I'd like to get back to my friends, if you don't mind."

She turned to go, but Julie caught her arm and sidled closer, her smile warm and maternal for the benefit of anybody watching.

"Of course it's our business," Julie argued. She kept her voice low and mild, but the authority behind it was obvious. "Marissa, a guest left our house in tears. And not just any guest. After all, Lindsay is . . ."

"My stepsister? Your surprise and oh, that's right, unwelcome stepdaughter?"

Julie tapped her nails against the glass tabletop. "Fine, yes. She is Caleb's daughter. But my point, Marissa, is that Lindsay made an embarrassing scene at my party and I'd like to know why."

"Oh? Your party?" Marissa asked innocently. "Wow, and here I thought it was for the Newport Group. But I guess in your mind, you are the Newport Group, aren't you?"

"Marissa!" Julie hissed.

"I'm just saying . . . Besides, Mom, it wasn't a scene. Nobody even noticed Lindsay crying."

"Oh really? Well, I noticed." Julie reached out and adjusted the straps on Marissa's dress, pulling them up higher on her shoulders. "You know, you really should have worn the Bagley Mischka the way I suggested."

Marissa promptly pushed the straps back down. "Yeah, nothing gets past you, does it, Mom? And by the way, I hate the Bagley Mischka. I would return it but hey, I didn't buy it in the first place."

"Fine," Julie sighed. "I really don't want to argue with you tonight, Marissa. I'd just like you to tell me why Lindsay was crying."

Marissa shrugged. "Maybe it was just an allergic reaction to all the artificial gold around here. Or maybe she tried the shrimp because seriously, Mom? The food sucked." She picked up a discarded pastry and shredded it, flicking the crumbs over the table. "But don't worry. You always find out everything, so I'm sure you'll get the whole story sooner or later. Knowing you, probably sooner . . . Oops, sorry. I made a mess here, didn't I? And at your wonderful party too." Marissa held up her hands in mock apology, then strode off, leaving Julie fuming behind her.

"Sometimes, that girl . . ." Julie muttered, before calling imperiously, "Waiter! Get over here and clear this table please! What do you think I'm paying you for?"

"Juju? Is something wrong?"

Julie started and spun around at the unexpected sound of Caleb's voice.

He looked at her with concern, draping an arm around her waist and giving her an absent-minded kiss on the temple.

"Cal! . . . No, darling, nothing's wrong. At least I hope not." Julie paused, and peered at Caleb suspiciously. She lowered her voice, pitching it for his ears only. "You didn't say anything to upset your daughter tonight, did you?"

Caleb drew away, annoyed. "First Sandy and now you. I really don't appreciate lectures about my relationship with Kirsten—"

"No," Julie interrupted. "Not Kirsten. Lindsay."

Caleb raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Lindsay is here? She told me she wasn't coming tonight."

"Then you didn't see her?"

"Obviously not," Caleb retorted impatiently. "Julie, do you mind telling me what you're talking about? Because if my daughter is upset, I would certainly like to know why. Where is she?" He scanned the crowd as if he expected to see Lindsay nearby.

"Don't bother looking. She's already gone home, Cal. Just a few minutes ago, actually. Summer was with her, and she was crying. I tried to get Marissa to tell me what happened, but she claimed it was none of my business."

"Of course my daughter is my business."

Julie smiled smugly. "That is exactly how I feel, Cal. I am trying to look out for your interests, you know, darling."

Caleb sat down heavily, and Julie dropped into the seat next to him. "But it doesn't make any sense," he argued. "Lindsay shows up at the party after turning down my invitation, doesn't even say hello and then leaves in tears . . ."

"I am so sorry, Cal," Julie said, her lips pursed in sympathy. "Do forgive me for suggesting you might have had anything to do with it. I just thought you and Lindsay might have had words. After all, she's never really accepted you as her father, has she?" Julie sighed dramatically. "It's so hard dealing with children who don't appreciate what you're trying to do for them. Believe me, I know."

Caleb's lips were set in a thin, hard line. "Whatever happened with Lindsay tonight had nothing to do with me, Juju. But trust me, I am going to find out why she was crying." He rolled his Scotch glass in his palms, his eyes slitting with grim determination. "And I'm quite sure I know exactly where to start."

TBC


	17. Chapter 15

The characters belong to Schwartz and company. I own nothing but the mistakes.   
Chapter 15 

Sandy slid into the driver's seat and closed the car door. He darted a quick look at Kirsten, his expression unreadable in the dark, and then clutched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled death grip while Seth and Ryan climbed wordlessly into the back seat.

Kirsten heard the metallic click of seatbelts being fastened, and then nothing. She held her breath, expecting someone to say something, to answer the questions they must know she had. No one did. Sandy simply started the ignition, driving with fierce concentration, apparently unaware of anyone else in the car.

The air throbbed with tension. Finally, Kirsten touched Sandy's shoulder to get his attention. "Sandy? What's wrong?" she murmured, almost afraid to hear the reply. "What happened?" Her voice was hushed, but it seemed to echo unnaturally in the closed space.

"Not now, sweetheart," Sandy said curtly. "When we get home, all right?" He reached over and patted her hand briefly, then lapsed back into silence.

Kirsten nodded, cast one anxious glance into the back seat at Seth and Ryan and then sat rigid, facing straight ahead all the way home. Behind her, Seth's eyes flickered from his father's back to Ryan's profile, and a few times he swallowed as though about to speak, but the foreboding quiet in the car felt like hands, one pressed over his mouth, the other locked on his shoulder, holding him in place. Ryan had turned to the window as soon as he sat down, and he never stirred, except for his fingers, which grasped the door handle spasmodically. The first time the car stopped at a light, Seth looked over furtively, half-afraid that Ryan would fling the door open and hurl himself out into the night.

Maybe Sandy had a similar thought. He clicked the childproof lock on, sealing the vehicle.

As soon as they pulled into the driveway, Sandy uttered a terse, "Living room. Now."

He gave Seth and Ryan just enough time to take seats at opposite ends of the couch. Then he exploded. "What the hell were you thinking?" His voice wasn't loud, but it vibrated with livid disbelief. "Both of you . . . I cannot believe you would be so thoughtless and irresponsible. You obviously didn't give a damn about anybody except yourselves tonight."

Kirsten had trailed the boys into the room, unable to keep up with Sandy's furious strides, unwilling to ask him to wait. "Sandy?" she asked, collapsing into an armchair. "Seth? Ryan? Would somebody please tell me what happened?"

"Disregarding everything we've ever told you," Sandy ranted, oblivious. "Getting drunk and high . . ."

Kirsten gasped. Her hand flew to her throat and her eyes flashed from Seth to Ryan and back to Sandy in consternation. "Boys . . . tell me you didn't . . . What did you do?"

Seth raised his hand to his shoulder, like a first-grader trying to get the teacher's attention.

"Uh, dad? Wrong conjunction," he offered helpfully. "Technically, I was the one getting drunk—just a little—and Ryan was the one getting high. Also just a little. So not drunk and high. Drunk or high—a little."

Sandy stopped pacing and whirled around, coming to a full stop in front of Seth. "Do you think that any of this is funny?"

"Not any more," Seth mumbled. He sank back on the couch and murmured to Ryan, "So much for lightening the mood."

A muscle in Ryan's jaw twitched, but he didn't answer.

"Well, Seth, since you seem a little more alert and willing to share right now than your cohort in crime, we might as well start with you." Sandy's tone oozed contempt, and Seth wasn't sure whether it was directed more at him or at Ryan. He suspected they might be equal targets, and he wondered why that idea made him briefly, bizarrely, happy. "Care to explain that colorful little scene I witnessed? Your mother didn't have the pleasure of seeing it, so I'm sure she'd love a description."

"Oh . . . kay," Seth began slowly. "Well, see, Mom, I got bored counting unicorns in Caitlyn's playroom—and by the way, isn't she a little old to have a playroom? Besides which, she's away at school, so really, it's just, like, a total waste of space that could be devoted to something more useful like a media room or"

"Seth!"

Seth flinched. "Yeah. Right, Dad. Rambling. So, back on point"

"It wasn't his fault," Ryan said suddenly. His voice was hollow and seemed to come from someplace far away.

Seth whipped around in surprise and Sandy nodded with something like approval, but Ryan didn't see either expression. When he raised his eyes, they fastened on Kirsten who was sitting silent and small in the armchair, twisting her rings nervously.

"I was the one. I was smoking." Ryan swallowed and admitted raggedly. "Marijuana. I was smoking weed. And . . . making out . . . with . . .well, just some girl I know."

"Oh, Ryan," Kirsten breathed.

He winced at the disappointment on her face, but continued resolutely. "Seth pretended Jamie was with him, but she wasn't, and he wasn't smoking. He didn't even show up until just before you did, Sandy. When he grabbed her. . . and the joint . . . he was only trying to be a friend. To protect Lindsay . . . from me. So she wouldn't find out what I was doing."

Kirsten shook her head, her eyes cloudy with disbelief. "I don't understand. Why would you do something like that, Ryan? That kind of behavior—it's not like you at all . . . Did we push you too hard—making you go to that damn party?" Her voice dropped to a shaky whisper. "Did I push you too hard, making you promise to stay here?"

"No!" Ryan answered sharply. He caught his breath, forcing himself back under control. His fist knotted around his crutch and he ground the tip of it into the floor before letting it slump against the coffee table. "You didn't do anything wrong. You haven't done anything wrong through any of this, Kirsten. You or Sandy."

"Then why . . .?"

Ryan hesitated before answering. He seemed to be searching for words, picking and discarding meaningless ones before he gave up and said simply, "I wanted to get out of myself for a while. Smoking and . . sex . . . just seemed like a way to do it, that's all."

"Well, it was a damned stupid way," Sandy announced, his voice blunt and inflexible.

Kirsten cringed at the tone and glanced anxiously at Ryan. "Sandy" she protested.

"No, honey, he needs to face it. Look at me, Ryan . . . Look at me," Sandy repeated. He crouched down so that they were at eye level, and waited until Ryan reluctantly met his gaze. The anger was gone, replaced with confusion and concern. "You're a smart kid. Did you really think it was a good idea to get high and cheat on your girlfriend?"

Ryan clenched his jaw, and the knuckles of his balled fist dug into the couch cushions.

"Ryan."

Sandy's voice was insistent and Ryan's head jerked up.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "That's what you want to hear, right? And I am. I'm sorry for what I did tonight. I'm sorry that I can't be what you want me to be. I've tried and I can't. This is just who I am. Things in my life start going right and I fuck up. Like with Oliver last year. And then Theresa. And now this . . ."

Ryan broke off, his breathing erratic. He pushed himself up, grabbing for his crutch, but his hands wouldn't work and it fell out of his grasp.

"Sit down!" Sandy ordered, getting to his feet. Instinctively he reached for Ryan, but when the boy recoiled, he dropped his arms back to his side. He shook his head at Kirsten, who had started out of her own chair with a choked cry, and waited until they both sat down again before he continued, His face was sober, and a little sad.

"Ryan, Kirsten and I have never asked you to be perfect. You're the one who does that."

Ryan wrapped his arms around himself, digging his fingers into his bicep. "I don't . . ."

"Yes," Sandy maintained, "you do. Kid, listen to me. We do not expect you to be some sort of paragon. You or Seth."

"Seth is different," Ryan muttered.

Seth's eyes flickered uneasily from Ryan to his father. "Yeah," he agreed, with a conciliatory grin. "That seems to be the consensus in the polls." He nudged Ryan's side, trying to divert what seemed to him a potentially dangerous conversational direction. Ryan didn't response, and Sandy frowned, silencing Seth and making him sink back into his corner of the couch.

When he spoke again, Sandy's voice was deliberate and decisive. "It is not possible to be perfect, Ryan, not for anyone, and if that's what you've been trying to do . . . Well, it's too much pressure for anybody to handle. You have got to give yourself a break."

"Ryan, is that what you really think?" Kirsten asked anxiously. "That we expect you to be perfect?"

Ryan shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know," he conceded. "I mean, you don't say it or anything. But I owe you so much, so . . ."

"You want to know what you owe us, Ryan?" Sandy demanded. "Fine. I'll tell you."

Ryan looked up. His face was stoic, as if prepared to hear bad news that he had been braced to learn for a long time.

From the far end of the couch, Seth stared at his parents, mouth open, shocked that Sandy hadn't countered, "You don't owe us anything," that his mother didn't offer Ryan immediate reassurance. But Sandy's face was stern, and Kirsten looked stunned, rendered immobile by the evening's events.

Seth wondered if he should say something instead, but his father didn't give him a chance.

Sandy put a hand on Ryan's shoulder, holding firm when he shifted slightly away. "This is it, kid, so you better hear me," he declared. "You owe it to us to think before you act so you don't hurt yourself or somebody else."

"That's . . . it?" Ryan shook his head in disbelief. "That can't be all . . ."

"That's everything. You think it's so easy? Did you do it tonight?"

"I guess . . ." Ryan set his jaw. "No," he admitted. "I didn't."

"Damn right you didn't." Sandy sighed. "Hell, kid, we all know what a rough time you've had lately. But what you did tonight was stupid and dangerous and incredibly hurtful, and you had to know that." Despite his attempt to remain calm, Sandy found himself growing agitated again, and his voice rose. "And I'm not just talking about the marijuana. Did you really believe that what you were doing with that girl was going to make you feel better? Because it was pretty obvious what was going on, even if you didn't get to . . . finish. So tell me the truth, Ryan. Was it worth it to forget all about Lindsay, a girl who really cares about you, just so you could . . ?" He stopped, glancing at Kirsten, who had gone pale and was gripping the arms of her chair.

"Please, Sandy," she whispered. "Don't."

"Fine. But, Ryan, I want an answer," Sandy insisted.

Seth squirmed uncomfortably, watching as Ryan's face shuttered and grew dark. "Dad, hey," he urged quietly. "Come on. Chill."

"Chill?"

"Just, you know, you already made your point, so . . . ease up on Ryan, okay?"

"You know what? I don't take advice from half-drunk teenagers," Sandy snapped.

"Ouch," Seth muttered. "Direct hit. Shutting up now."

"Smart decision. Ryan . . .?"

Sandy's voice demanded a response. Ryan bit his upper lip, forced out a few thin, unwilling words. "No. It didn't make me feel better. It made me feel numb."

"Right. Numb." Sandy shook his head, his face registering regret as well as a kind of empathy. He gave Ryan a penetrating look, and then abruptly changed gears. "And you, Seth, I suppose you were going for the same result, trying to anesthetize yourself with alcohol?"

Ryan frowned, surprised, as Sandy swung his attention back to his son. He'd expected more interrogation, more of a lecture at least, and he didn't understand why Sandy was suddenly shifting blame back to Seth.

"Sandy," he objected. "I told you, Seth didn't do anything wrong. He was just covering for me."

"Um, Ryan?" Seth reminded him quietly. "In the parent handbook? Covering for someone pretty much makes you equally guilty."

Sandy nodded grimly. "True. So I assume you'll plead to the second count, Seth. Let's go back to the first one."

"Yeah, well, I . . . um, what exactly was the charge again, Dad?" Seth risked a quick grin, then quickly extinguished it when his father glowered at him.

Sandy crossed to Seth's side of the couch. Ryan's bewildered eyes tracked his movement, and he tried again, his voice raspy and persistent. "Sandy, I'm the one you're mad at. And Seth tried to stop me from . . . well, everything. I swear. So don't take it out on him, okay?"

"Oh, there's plenty of blame to go around here, Ryan," Sandy said coolly. He caught a questioning frown from Kirsten and telegraphed her an answering look that she recognized: trust me. She nodded slightly, sitting back, and Sandy continued, "Son, were you or were you not drinking tonight?"

"Man," Seth muttered. "I hate it when he goes lawyer on me." He looked over at Kirsten, hopeful of appealing to a higher court. "Mom?"

To Seth's despair, she just continued the cross-examination. "Did you drink alcohol at your grandfather's party, Seth?"

He tried a persuasive smile, flashing his dimples. "Well, I wouldn't say drink so much as sip," he claimed evasively. "And I wouldn't say alcohol, so much as champagne, which, come on, isn't even a third cousin twice removed to the hard stuff, right?"

"Stop smiling. Champagne is alcohol, you're underage, and as I recall, we've had this discussion before," Sandy retorted. "Obviously it didn't take, and you need a refresher course. But there's probably no point in trying to get through to you tonight."

Seth nodded with eager relief and started to get up, gesturing for Ryan to follow him.

"Hold it right there, you two. We're not done."

Sandy went to stand behind Kirsten, and put his hands on her shoulders.

Seth leaned over to Ryan who had sunk back on the couch, looking both confused and exhausted by the turns in the conversation. "It's the united front pose," Seth whispered. "Never a good sign."

Kirsten reached up to clasp Sandy's hand. She looked from Seth to Ryan and her eyes filled with tears. "I just don't know what to say to you boys about this," she began.

"Oh, I do," Sandy interjected. "For starters, you're both grounded." He raised a warning finger and pointed it at his son. "Don't even think about saying anything, Seth. I'm well aware of the fact that you are already grounded. Just consider your punishment extended indefinitely, possibly until your mother and I need you to get us settled in a nursing home. We'll let you know. And Ryan," he added grimly, "being grounded may sound a lot like just being stuck at home the way you have been, since you're still pretty much immobile. But trust me, you will know the difference. No calls, no computers, no television, no PlayStation. Oh, and next week is spring break, isn't it?" Sandy gave a satisfied nod and squeezed Kirsten's shoulders. "Excellent timing, guys. This is going to be particularly sweet retribution . . ."

"All of spring break? Sacred teen-time? But Dad . . ."

Sandy cocked his head quizzically. "I'm sorry, Seth. Was there something you wanted to say?"

"Say? Um . . . not so much." Seth swallowed and offered his parents an anemic smile. "Silent as the Sphinx here. Mum in fact."

"You, Ryan?"

Ryan bit the side of his lip and shook his head.

"Good," Sandy declared. "But Ryan . . . when we've both calmed down, we are going to talk about this some more. Whatever made you act out tonight, we're going to get it settled, understand? Because this cannot happen again."

Ryan looked at Sandy directly, his eyes dark with conviction. "It won't," he promised.

"Good," Sandy repeated, but the edge had gone out of his voice, and the lines in his face softened. "All right. Now get to bed, both of you. Sleep off . . . whatever."

"Wait!" Kirsten called, as Seth and Ryan got up. "I do have something I need to say first."

Both boys tensed, turning to face her. Kirsten hesitated for a moment. She pressed her palms together, resting her mouth on the steeple of her fingers. Then she folded her hands in her lap. "Seth, Ryan," she said quietly. "You really let us down tonight. Making a mistake is one thing, but deliberately doing things you know are wrong . . . that kind of behavior is never, ever acceptable in this family. Do you understand?" She waited for their sheepish, shamed nods before continuing. "Still . . . nothing that happened changes the fact that we love you both very much. And I want you to remember that." Her voice broke, and she gave a tremulous smile. "All right?"

Ryan ducked his head, murmured, "Yeah. Thank you," as Seth crossed and gave his mother a quick kiss. "Love you too, Mom," he said.

Kirsten cupped Seth's chin briefly and motioned to Ryan. He came over, standing hesitantly for a moment until Seth moved aside and whispered, "Tag in, bro." Then Ryan bent down and touched his lips to Kirsten's cheek. She brushed the hair out of his eyes as he stood back up.

"Now," she said, "you can both go to bed."

Sandy stepped from behind Kirsten's chair and followed Seth and Ryan to the door, watching as they made their way silently toward their rooms.

The moment the boys were out of sight, Sandy swung around, smiling broadly. He raised his hands above his head and clasped them in a victory salute.

"Sandy? What's going on? You're . . . happy? What is there to be happy about?" Kirsten demanded incredulously. Tears that she had blinked back while Seth and Ryan were in the room welled over, and she stared at her husband in disbelief.

Sandy bounded over, pulled her up into his arms, and began to dance her around the room, humming into her ear.

"What's gotten into you?" Kirsten protested, pushing against his chest. "Sandy, this evening was a complete catastrophe. The boys are self-destructing. I told you we shouldn't have forced them . . ."

Sandy stopped in mid-step, but he continued to hold her. "They stuck together, honey."

Kirsten blinked, bewildered.

"Think about it," Sandy urged. "Ryan defended Seth. Seth asked me to ease up on Ryan. Sweetheart, they were acting like . . ."

Kirsten's eyes widened. "Like friends," she breathed with stunned comprehension. "Like brothers. The way they used to. Sandy, they were, weren't they? Do you suppose . . .?"

Sandy tightened his grasp and rested his chin on top of Kirsten's head. "Well, we can't get too excited. They were both under the influence, remember? Let's see how they do sober, when Seth takes Ryan to rehab and they have to deal with each other without having us as a common opponent. You know, the enemy of my enemy is my friend . . ."

"Sandy Cohen! We are not the enemy!"

"Kirsten," Sandy said blithely, as he switched from a fox trot into a slightly off-rhythm rumba, "we're parents. Of course we're the enemy. It's part of the job description. Just like we're the heroes, the role models, the coaches, the confessors, the mentors, the bankers, the lifeguards, and about sixty other things. You have to read the fine print, honey. Anyway, let's not lose sight of the important point here."

"And the important point is . . .?"

"That we should absolutely avoid all parties at your father's house," Sandy teased. Then he stopped dancing and added seriously, "Actually, sweetheart, as horrible as Cooper-Nichol parties are, I've gotta say, in my book? This one turned out to be an exception. I know it happened for all the wrong reasons, and obviously we've got some issues we need to deal with once the dust settles. But I really do think Seth and Ryan are back on track." Sandy raised Kirsten's hand to his lips and kissed it. "And now, Mrs. Cohen, care to finish our dance?

Kirsten laughed as Sandy spun her dizzily around the living room. She collapsed against him, nestling under his chin and feeling his breath lift her hair as he continued to hum.

"If the boys could see us now, they would think that we're completely crazy," she murmured. "Singing and dancing when they" Kirsten stopped abruptly and pulled herself away just enough so that she could look up at Sandy. Her eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "Wait a minute. Sanford Cohen . . . you manipulated Seth and Ryan tonight, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you mean, sweetheart," Sandy claimed innocently.

Kirsten slapped him lightly on the chest, smiling with wry admiration. "Oh yes, you do. The way you were accusing them, baiting them, pushing them—it was all designed to goad them into defending each other, wasn't it?"

"Little bit. Little, little, tiny bit." Sandy held up a hand, his thumb and forefinger measuring a scant inch. "Hey, sweetheart, a lawyer has to use a few tricks sometimes if he wants to get at the truth." He pulled Kirsten back against him and kissed her deeply. "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"Why you—attorney, you." Kirsten released two buttons on Sandy's shirt and slipped her hand underneath the fabric. "You are so bad."

"And that would be bad as in . . .?"

Kirsten let her fingers and her lips answer him first. "As in very, very good. Oh, counselor. I can't wait to see you in my chambers . . ."

At the foot of the stairs, Seth turned to Ryan and rocked back on his heels.

"So, dude," he began tentatively, "this evening pretty much turned into . . ."

"A fucking mess," Ryan concluded.

"Well, I was thinking something a little more epic. The sinking of the Titanic. The crash of the Hindenburg. The siege of the Alamo. But a fucking mess? Yeah, that pretty much sums it up too."

Ryan sighed. "It's all on me, Seth," he muttered, stabbing at the bottom step with the tip of his crutch. "You shouldn't have gotten busted for it. I didn't mean to drag you down with me tonight. What you did—well, I . . . owe you, man." Under his breath he added, so quietly that Seth didn't hear, "Again."

Seth shrugged, shaking his head. "No, hey, I figure if we follow the whole cause-effect line back to the beginning, shit, I'm the one who started this whole snowball of disaster rolling. Which, you know, takes major fuck-up talent, since we live in southern California and it's practically impossible to even make a snowball."

Ryan's brow furrowed, trying to follow Seth's rambling logic.

"Yeah, I mean . . . anyway, we can trace pretty much every lousy thing that's happened recently back to . . . well, you know," Seth explained, with an expression of earnest appeal. "My infamous erase-the-tape moment. So you don't owe me, Ryan . . . Seriously. You don't."

"Still," Ryan insisted uncomfortably, "it's not right for you to take the heat for tonight. Look, maybe tomorrow I can talk to Sandy . . ."

Seth gave an ironic smile and waved his hands magnanimously. "Thanks, but trust me, Ryan, that would be so not worth the effort. Because, dude, the drinking? I did that all on my own. Hell, I would have done a lot more if Summer and Alex, AKA the Carrie Nation twins, hadn't come charging in waving their hatchets. Well, their metaphorical hatchets anyway." Seth shuddered. "God, can you picture Summer with a real one?"

Ryan frowned, puzzled. "The Carrie Nation twins?"

"Okay, you're clearly a little too far gone for obscure American history references. Don't worry about it, buddy. I'll explain it all someday. Besides, when you talk science, I get lost."

"Seth," Ryan countered, his face lighting with a faint smirk, "you get lost four blocks away from the Harbor campus."

"Ah! What was that?" Seth asked dramatically. "Was that a weak but brave attempt at the legendary Atwood humor?"

"Legendary?"

"Yeah, you know. Legendary. May not exist in reality, but occasional reports of sightings make us want to believe in it." The moment he said them, Seth wanted the words back, and he held his breath waiting to see if Ryan would be offended.

"So my humor is . . ." Ryan raised an eyebrow and considered. "The Loch Ness Monster?"

Seth caught the quirk of Ryan's lips and did a little shimmy of relief. "Um, yeah. Or, you know, maybe Bigfoot."

"No, I'm Nessie. You would be Bigfoot," Ryan parried. "And hey, that was the best I could do tonight . . ." A shadow of worry erased his brief smile. "Seth, do you suppose your mom will be all right?"

"Mom? Sure. She's fine. Why?"

"I think we upset her tonight. A lot. In the car on the way home she was like. . . frozen, or something. And did you see the way she was looking at us in there?" Ryan shook his head, shifted his gaze away from Seth's face. His voice suddenly sounded very guilty. "She's taken all of this . . . you know, what's happened with us . . . really hard."

Seth nodded, suddenly serious. "Yeah, I know. But, Ryan, honestly, I think Mom will be okay as long as we are. Are we? Okay? 'Cause see, to me, tonight felt a lot like the way things used to be—well, I mean after the whole alternative universe bit with Jamie and the weed and everything."

"Yeah." Ryan risked one of his shy, almost cautious half-smiles that offered trust, but still held back a small measure of himself. "Yeah, it did sort of," he said slowly.

"So . . .?"

Ryan hesitated for just a moment, his eyes skimming the ground. "We're okay, Seth," he said finally, head cocked as if he was listening to his own words. "I mean . . . yeah. We're getting there."

"Right," Seth agreed, bobbing his head rhythmically. "Getting there. So that's progress . . . Um, Ryan, not that I want to ruin this band of brothers moment or anything, but . . . what about Lindsay?"

"Lindsay," Ryan repeated heavily.

"What are you gonna do, dude? I mean, if I can help, I totally will . . . but somehow I don't think Lindsay would appreciate the tag-team approach too much."

Ryan blew out a despairing breath. "Nah. My guess? Lindsay's done with me," he predicted tonelessly. "I don't blame her either because, shit, that business with Jamie on top of . . ." He stopped suddenly.

"On top of what, Ryan?" Seth looked at Ryan, troubled by his vacant tone of voice, his suddenly bleak expression. "What else is going on with you, man? 'Cause if you want to talk, you know, I'm here."

Ryan sighed again, weighing the offer. "Look, Seth, could we maybe drop this for tonight?" he suggested. "I really don't feel like . . ."

"Yeah, no, totally with you on that. One post-mortem limit per night. Besides, if we stay out here much longer, Dad will probably come out and extend our punishments until the next millennium. So . . . talk to you tomorrow?"

Ryan bit his lip, debating. "Tomorrow," he agreed.

"Okay then." Hesitantly, Seth held out his fist.

Ryan looked at it, gave a crooked grin and rapped it lightly with his knuckles.

"Good night, Seth."

"Night, Ryan."

Despite being slightly dizzy, Seth took the stairs two at a time. He was trying to figure out if it was too late to call Summer. There was something he really wanted to discuss with her.

Ryan watched him go, then turned wearily to his own room and pushed open the door. The light inside startled him, and his eyes, heavy-lidded and expecting darkness, blinked several times before they focused. When his sight cleared, Ryan leaned back against his closed door, stunned.

It didn't make sense, but there they were: Lindsay and Summer, both of them expressionless, sitting rigidly in his bedroom.

Waiting for him.

TBC

**A/N**: Yes, I know. How did they get in? Why didn't anybody notice the car? Answers in the next chapter


	18. Chapter 16

I still own nothing OC-related (well, except the DVD.) I still am grateful for all the feedback.   
Collision Course Chapter 16 

Ryan had heard the expression "shell-shocked," had even understood it intellectually, but he knew what it meant viscerally, in his muscles and his bones.

"Lindsay?" he asked, his voice scratching the air. "Summer? What are you--?"

Summer got up, stretching to her full height, and announced frostily. "I am here because Lindsay asked me to drive her. Trust me, I am not staying." She turned to Lindsay, softening her tone. "I'm going to go talk to Cohen, okay? Call me when you're ready to leave. Or if you, like, need me." Then, with the bite back in her voice, she faced Ryan again, snapping, "But before I go, let me just say one thing to you, Chino. You? Are a complete and total ass."

Summer flicked her fingers imperiously so that Ryan stepped aside. She gave a final sympathetic glance back at Lindsay before she disappeared.

Ryan barely registered Summer's exit before his gaze slid to the floor. He waited for Lindsay to say something, but she simply looked at him. In the silence, the soft click of the door closing behind Summer seemed to echo, a sound full of endings, full of regret. Finally Ryan murmured, "I know how much I hurt you, Lindsay. I wish I could explain. Hell, I wish I could take it all back. Tonight . . ." He spread his hands hopelessly and waited; when no help came, he concluded, "I just . . . wanted to be somebody else for a while. That's all."

Lindsay's lip quivered, but the rest of her body remained tense and still.

Normally Ryan found comfort in quiet, but Lindsay's refusal to speak made the air between them crackle, charged and dangerous; the room reverberated with unspoken accusations. Ryan shuddered slightly and licked his lips. "I didn't expect to see you again tonight," he admitted. "I was going to call you, though. Tomorrow. How did you . . .?"

"Kirsten gave me a house key a few weeks ago," Lindsay explained tonelessly. "So I'd feel more like one of the family. This is the first time I've used it."

"Do Kirsten and Sandy know . . .?"

"That I'm here? No. I don't intend to stay long. Probably I should have waited for you to call me . . . if you really were going to, Ryan. But I thought if we were going to talk at all, it would have to be now."

Ryan took a half step inside the room and placed a palm flat against the doorjamb to steady himself. "Okay."

"Did you plan to meet her there? That girl? Is that why you didn't want me to come to the party?"

"What? God, no!" Ryan sounded genuinely shocked, and Lindsay relaxed a little. "She was just there, hanging out with this group. Nobody important. Just . . . some kids from Harbor, you know?"

Ryan chanced an appealing look up and Lindsay beckoned as though giving him permission to come all the way into his own room. He pulled out the desk chair and sat, angling himself so that he didn't have to face her directly.

"Tell me what happened, Ryan," Lindsay said. The words were half entreaty, half an order.

"You don't want to hear this."

"No, see, I do. If you and I are still going to be . . . anything . . . to each other, I do."

Hope flickered briefly across Ryan's face. "All right," he said carefully. "I was looking for a way to avoid the party . . . all those people. Caleb, mostly, I guess. So I took off. The place is big enough to pretty much disappear. I figured I'd just hang by myself until it was time to leave."

"Then why didn't you?"

Ryan shrugged uneasily. "I don't know," he admitted. "Eric and Jamie, the girl that . . . that you saw, they spotted me and asked me to join them. They had some weed and . . . I used to smoke a lot before I came here, Lindsay." Ryan gave a mocking smile. "It seemed like a way to take the edge off. Always worked before."

Lindsay's eyes flared angrily. "God, Ryan, I don't care about the smoking! I care about. . ." Her voice caught, and she studied the gold swirls of her dress for a long moment before speaking again. "So what were you really doing tonight?" she demanded at last. "Reverting to the person you used to be? The old Ryan Atwood used to get high, so you get high again? He used to fuck around, so you fuck around again?"

Ryan flinched. Lindsay never used that kind of language. Coming from her it sounded crude and cold and devoid of human feeling. He wished he could defend himself, or at least apologize, but all the words he found seemed feeble, not worth the breath they would take to say.

"Yeah," he confessed reluctantly. "I guess that's exactly what I was doing."

Ryan bit his lip and looked at Lindsay, his eyes earnest and pleading, but she lowered her head so that her hair fell forward, hiding her face from him, and he had to lean forward to hear her.

"I don't know how to say this," she whispered painfully, plucking at her skirt. "Does that girl . . .? Does being with her have anything to do with what happened between us the other day?"

"No," Ryan claimed, low and adamant. "It doesn't have anything to do with you, Lindsay. I promise. It doesn't."

Lindsay's mouth twisted. "I'm not stupid, Ryan. I'm not even as naïve as you seem to think. Of course it has to do with me."

"But not the way you're thinking," he argued.

"No?" Lindsay countered, and Ryan was startled by the vehemence of her voice, the way her head snapped up and her eyes locked on his relentlessly. "What am I thinking?"

Ryan swallowed hard. "That you're not enough?" he suggested softly. "And that's not true. The other day, Lindsay? You said I wasn't even seeing you, that you could have been anybody. You were right. That day—and at the party, I guess—I just wanted somebody to . . . well, to fuck. Without thinking about it. Or . . . caring."

"But why do you need that, Ryan?" Lindsay asked desperately. "I don't understand. Make me understand."

Ryan clenched his hands, bowing his face over them. "God, this is so hard, Lindsay. I don't . . . talk about these things." He could feel Lindsay's insistence in her silence, and with an effort, he forced himself to meet her eyes. "Okay. My mom drinks. You know that. Anytime she can't face her life, which is pretty much all the time. And my brother Trey—well, when he can't cope with the world, he uses whatever drug he can get his hands on."

Ryan stopped, taking some deep breaths before he continued. "My father—I can't even tell you about him. He's been gone so long, I don't trust what I think I remember. But hell, he's an Atwood, so I know he's got some kind of a . . . crutch." Ryan spat the word with disgust, simultaneously flinging his own crutch to the floor.

Lindsay gasped as it hit the ground. "Ryan . . ."

"Me . . . For me it's sex, Lindsay. No strings, no relationship, just . . . sex." The words sounded as if Ryan was dragging them out of some dark, hidden place inside himself. "Back in Chino, it's how I, I don't know, escaped. Got outside myself."

The anger in Lindsay's voice had evaporated. All that remained was hurt and confusion. "And you still need that, Ryan?"

"I haven't." Ryan's voice was reflective, as if he were thinking aloud. "Not for a long time. But lately, yeah, I do. Only. . . it gets complicated when I care about the person. Then it can't just be about me anymore . . . I kind of forgot that the other day, and that scared me. Because I do care about you, Lindsay. When we're together, you're not just . . . some body."

He got up and crossed to the bed, sitting down next to Lindsay, but not close, keeping a respectful distance between them. "You're more than that. At least . . . if you still want to be." Ryan looked at her, wary and beseeching. "Do you?"

Lindsay took a shaky breath. She released the stranglehold she had on her skirt and let her hand glide across the comforter until she just barely touched Ryan's wrist.

"I should say no. Or at least make you wait for an answer," she said. Her eyes were moist, and her fingers on his skin felt slight and cold and fragile. "Because you really did hurt me, Ryan. But I want us to be who we were. So . . . if you can promise me . . ." She slid her hand into his, offering him a tremulous half-smile.

Ryan cupped her chin and kissed her lips, nose, and eyes gently. "I promise you."

Lindsay allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. "Good," she murmured. "Good. But I swear to God, Atwood, if you ever, ever do anything like that again . . ."

The connection between them still felt precarious, and Ryan tried to secure it. "What? What will you do?" He walked his fingers down Lindsay's arm, teasing, trying to reclaim their old easy intimacy, but she pulled away.

"Don't," Lindsay warned. "I'm not playing, Ryan. If it happens again, I will leave you." She regarded him seriously. "Do you believe me?"

Ryan dropped his hands to his side and nodded.

"All right. Then kiss me goodnight. I'm going home." Lindsay lifted her face but she kept her mouth closed to Ryan's kiss, and stood up as soon as his lips left hers. "Get some sleep," she ordered. "I want the Ryan I know back tomorrow."

"Lindsay—wait." Ryan caught her hand to keep her from leaving. "Tomorrow . . . I just want you to know. I won't be able to see you. Seth and I are both grounded. Sandy won't even say for how long. He's really pissed at us."

"Oh," Lindsay breathed. She tilted her head back, looking at him through her lashes. "So . . . it might be a while before we can be together again?"

"Yeah. It might. A long while." Ryan's voice was smoky, and his fingers seemed to burn on Lindsay's skin. He lowered his head, his mouth finding the bruised spot on her neck, moving over it with small, gentle kisses that felt like penance or promises.

Lindsay let her purse fall to the floor. In three fluid motions, she shrugged off her sweater, pulled Ryan's shirt out of his pants, and slid her hands up his chest. "Then," she murmured, pushing him back toward the bed, "I guess we'll just have to do this now."

Seth flipped his phone from hand to hand, checking his reflection in the mirror and wondering which limb he could afford to lose if he risked another middle-of-the-night phone call to Summer. Of course, he reasoned, it wasn't really the middle of the night. It was more like the beginning of the middle, or maybe the end of the beginning. In fact, it might be too early to call. Summer could still be at his grandfather's party or—and Seth's heart involuntarily plummeted—continuing a private party with Zach.

He sighed, resigned to the fact that, for his own physical and emotional safety, he should wait to contact her until morning, when someone rapped sharply at his door.

"Let me guess," Seth muttered to himself, "The Lecture, part 2: One-on-One with Seth." He pasted a conciliatory smile on his face and swung open the door, prepared to face one or both of his parents, but definitely not the person he found there. Summer. She stood swinging her purse, one hand on her hip, her lips pursed and appraising.

"Better," she said, nodding. "At least this time I didn't have to let myself in. But Cohen, ew. Close your mouth."

Seth slapped his jaw shut, suddenly aware that it was hanging open in surprise. Probably not his best look.

Summer swept past him and surveyed the room. "Okay, there's been some improvement here too," she conceded, taking a seat on top of his desk. "But not enough. Two words: air freshener. Buy some. Use lots."

"Yeah, well, it would have been cleaner and, well, less smelly, but I wasn't really expecting you to drop by," Seth said defensively. "Like, at all." He jiggled the phone that he was still holding, and then replaced it in the stand. "Although I was just thinking about calling you."

Summer's eyes narrowed. "What? I wasn't clear about phone calls that wake me out of a sound sleep and the lunatics who make them?"

"Summer, you're wide awake. Obviously."

"So not the point," Summer said, waving her hand dismissively. "You only know that because I'm here."

"Okay, but . . . yeah, Summer, you're here. Do my parents know you're here?" Seth asked suddenly. He cracked the door open, did a quick surveillance of the hallway, then closed the door and leaned against it.

"No. Do they need to?"

Seth motioned frantically with his hands, making a downward pressing gesture.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Summer demanded.

"The opposite of 'raise the roof.' It's the universal signal for 'turn down the volume'," Seth explained in a whisper.

Summer rolled her eyes. "Maybe in your universe. In mine if you want somebody to be quiet, you just do this." She raised a perfectly manicured finger to her lips.

"Okay, but you know, not the time to argue gesture semantics. Just keep your voice down, Summer, all right?" Seth urged. "I'm sort of seriously grounded, and somehow I don't think the rents would consider you being here part of my punishment. Why are you here anyway? Not that I'm complaining because, yeah, definitely not, but . . . why are you here?"

"I'm waiting for Lindsay. And coming up here to talk to you was a slightly better alternative than sitting alone in the car. Slightly."

Seth plopped himself down on his bed and stared at Summer, trying to ignore the fact that her position on the desk put her thighs directly at his eye level. "You're waiting for Lindsay. What does that mean in English exactly?"

"In English? It means I'm waiting for Lindsay."

"Still not so much with the making sense."

"Fine. Lindsay asked me to drive her here so she could talk to Ryan," Summer explained, her voice singsong and, if Seth thought about it, really, really patronizing. "We heard you guys pull in like an hour ago, and we've been waiting and waiting. You must have gotten a major lecture from your folks, huh? Want to share the highlights?"

"Yeah, no, thanks anyway," Seth said absently. "I'm trying to figure a few things out. You drove Lindsay here? So where was your car? 'Cause I totally would have noticed it in the drive."

Summer shrugged and pulled her skirt down over her knees. "Hey, Cohen. Eyes up," she ordered. Seth sighed and raised his gaze obediently. "I drove Lindsay's car, and it's parked around back. Lindsay didn't want Ryan to know she was here. She thought he might try to avoid talking to her."

"Okay, that part I get. Ryan—no problem on the physical courage front. He'll face down anybody, anytime. But emotionally . . . well, not so much." Seth bit his lip anxiously. "So Lindsay couldn't even wait until tomorrow to break up with him? That's why she's here, right, to tell him it's over?"

"After what Chino did? She should," Summer declared. "That Jamie is a major league skank and everybody knows it. It's like, her only personality trait. But honestly, I don't know what Lindsay's going to do. I don't think she does either . . ." Her voice softened, and Summer smiled sincerely at Seth. "Lindsay told me what you did, though, Cohen. Pretty nice move. Clumsy, from what I hear, but nice. Definitely gives you points in the 'friend' category, trying to take the heat for Chino like that."

Seth flushed, warmed by her approval. "Yeah, well, it didn't quite work the way I intended," he admitted. "Ryan thinks I did it for Lindsay. He thinks I was just trying to protect her feelings, so . . ."

"He'll figure it out," Summer predicted. "Chino's not stupid. Well, he is, but not that way . . . So anyway, Cohen, as long as I'm here, why were you going to call me tonight? We might as well get this conversation out of the way while I'm still awake. And that may not last long, because if you'll remember, somebody interrupted my beauty sleep last night."

"Okay," Seth agreed, leaning forward. "Yeah, okay. See, I think I have an idea what to do for Ryan, to sort of make up for . . . everything. Or maybe not a full-fledged idea. More like a notion, I guess. Or almost a notion. Anyway, I want to run it past you."

"Because you need my wise advice. Understandable. If I were you, I wouldn't trust my own ideas either. So, go ahead, Cohen. What is it?"

"Well, I may actually need more than advice. I may need your help—okay, really Lindsay's help, only I'm not her exactly her favorite person. Of course, after tonight I don't know how she's going to feel about Ryan either, but maybe if you run interference . . . "

"I don't run, Cohen," Summer reminded him. "Like, ever. Have you noticed my shoes? But proceed. With as little pointless babbling as possible, please. If your idea's not too stupid, I'll consider asking Lindsay to help."

"Good. Yeah, and . . . Summer, speaking of Lindsay? Do you think we have time for this conversation now? I mean, what do you suppose is happening down there? Should we, like, have 911 on standby or something?"

Summer cocked her head and checked her watch. "Hmm," she mused. "It usually doesn't take this long to break up. So maybe . . . well, if Lindsay took my advice, I may have some idea what's going on. In which case, forget 911, Cohen. They won't need any help at all, and you and I will have plenty of time to discuss this idea of yours."

Ryan sat on the bed mesmerized.

He didn't quite know what had happened, how Lindsay had gone from anger and hurt, to a chaste, closed-mouth kiss, to this.

She was stripping for him. Her hair was thrown back, exposing the vulnerable column of her neck as she slowly untied the straps of her filmy gold dress. She hesitated a moment before pulling it down, smiling at Ryan's surprise when he realized that she was naked underneath except for a flesh-colored thong. Always before, Ryan had helped Lindsay undress, his hands coaxing away layers of clothes along with the shyness that persisted even after he'd memorized the shape and texture of her body. Now she flushed just a little as she stepped out of the dress, and Ryan felt an answering warmth spread throughout his body.

Lindsay moved to unfasten the heavy pendant she wore. At the last minute, she changed her mind and left it hanging between her breasts, solid and dark against the tender peach of her skin. Her lips were parted, and she half-climbed, half-crawled onto the bed until she was straddling Ryan, her hair falling lightly onto his shoulders.

"Lindsay," Ryan said hoarsely. "Are you sure? Because the last time . . ."

"The last time I let you forget that you were with me," Lindsay said. "This time you'll know." She unfastened his sling, eased it off, and then moved to do the same with the brace on his leg. The ripping sound of the Velcro straps tore through the room. "I set the pace tonight, Ryan. I decide what we do, and how fast, and how much."

Lindsay bit her lip, astonished and exhilarated at her own daring. She wondered briefly where she had found the nerve for this and felt a frisson of fear that her instincts and limited experience would fail her. Pretty much everything she knew, Ryan himself had taught her. For a moment she faltered, afraid that she'd disappoint him and embarrass herself. But then she saw that Ryan's mouth was slightly open, his tongue sliding over his upper lip. His eyes had already darkened, and they were fixed on her.

Lindsay smiled and climbed back into place, poised over Ryan's body. She could do this.

Remembering the exquisite anticipation she always felt under Ryan's slow hands when he would begin to touch her, Lindsay moved languidly. She removed his shirt, taking a moment to fold it while she sat back on his thighs, shifting on them just slightly, just enough to make his breathing start to change. Ryan reached for her, trying to pull her down on top of him, but Lindsay leaned away from him.

"No. Bad boy, Ryan," she reproved. "When I'm ready. Not before."

Lindsay ran her hands over the soft ribbed fabric of Ryan's wifebeater, pressing the cloth against his chest. "I do like this," she told him. Then she bent over, caught the hem of the t-shirt in her teeth and nudged it up. Ryan obligingly lifted himself onto his elbows, following the movement of Lindsay's head and arms as she pulled the shirt off him. His jaw worked, and she could feel him swallow convulsively as her mouth grazed his throat.

"But I like this more," Lindsay whispered, breathing hot onto his bare chest. She traced the outline of each muscle with the palms of her hand, as if she were an artist molding Ryan's body out of clay, and he felt the heat and friction build as she pressed her flesh against his.

Lindsay pulled back and Ryan sucked in his breath with an audible gasp. She dropped his wifebeater to the floor, and then bent over so that first her hair and then her breasts brushed across his face. Ryan held her there for a moment, rubbing her nipples erect with his thumb, and then taking each breast into his mouth in turn. Lindsay closed her eyes and let him play for a moment before she eased away again. She dipped lower and trailed her tongue along Ryan's collarbone, licking a line across and then down his chest. Her mouth sucked hard all around his navel, lapping inside it, while her hands worked blindly to unbuckle his belt.

"Lindsay," Ryan groaned, pushing up against her. He started to roll to the side, ready to mount her, but Lindsay held him in place with her body weight, her ass rolling a promise across his hips.

She put a finger on Ryan's lips, withdrawing it immediately. "Not tonight," she warned. "You're not on top tonight. I am."

Ryan didn't quite recognize this Lindsay, whose eyes had a quality he'd never seen before: wanton and willful and hungry. He watched, forcing his body into an aching patience as she crept down on the bed. First she unzipped his pants, slowly, deliberately. Then she eased her hands under his hips and he arched up immediately so that she could slide them off, bringing his boxers along with them. Ryan writhed underneath her, kicking off his dress shoes, and hissing as Lindsay's hand closed around his erect cock. She gave one quick, firm squeeze before she pressed her hand against his stomach, shaking her head and mouthing, "Wait."

At the foot of the bed Lindsay stood up. She lifted Ryan's right foot and then his left, pulling off his socks and taking a moment to massage each instep, her fingers rubbing small insistent circles and her thumbs pressing deep into his soles.

A tremor ran through Ryan's body and he pushed himself up on his elbows. His voice was dark and pleading. "Come back."

Lindsay's hands stroked along his calves and settled just above his knees. "Maybe," she teased. "Say my name."

"Lindsay . . ." he rasped. "Come back."

Her hands moved a little higher. "Again," she ordered.

Ryan inhaled, exhaled a shuddering, "Lindsay."

She smiled, her own breath hitching, and ran her hands all the way up inside his thighs, rubbing hard and hot and stopping just short of his throbbing cock. Then she straddled his legs and extended her palms to his mouth.

"Make me wet, Ryan."

His eyes widened, and the small part of Lindsay's brain that was still functioning registered amazement that she had actually said those words. Ryan took her hands in his. He kissed each finger and the center of each palm before licking them thoroughly. Lindsay felt an answering dampness between her own legs and her head fell back. She ran her tongue over her lips, then bent forward, taking Ryan into her mouth while she stroked the base of his cock and rolled his balls with her saliva-slick hands.

Nothing Lindsay did was new, but it all felt different somehow, more urgent and more tender all at once. Each time she pressed or rubbed, swirled or flicked her tongue, it was at the very moment that Ryan knew he needed that exact touch.

He had never come in her mouth before. Always before he had pulled out, almost apologetic, as though he was preserving some leftover bit of her innocence. But tonight when Ryan started to thrust harder, groaning deep from the core of his being, Lindsay held on, lips and hands clamping, owning him as he tried to pull away, until he spilled himself down her throat.

Momentarily triumphant, Lindsay swallowed and stretched against Ryan, breathing a taste of himself back into his mouth, biting his lower lip. His tongue played around hers, and suddenly she was frantic with her own need.

"God, Ryan, please, please . . ."

Ryan's eyes had been closed, but at the sound of Lindsay's voice, evaporating in the electric air between them, he looked up and smiled.

"Your turn," he promised, and cupped her ass, rolling her over beside him. His slid down on the bed, taking his time, tracing her body with his hands and mouth. Lindsay hissed, opening herself, and Ryan's tongue licked between her legs, long slow strokes that cleaned her and made her wet all over again. Then it flicked inside faster, firmer, finding her clit, and sending another tremor through Lindsay's body. She grabbed his hair, arching into his mouth, panting his name as her body kindled.

Ryan waited until her shuddering subsided. Then he crawled back up the bed, keeping contact between them, skin on skin, and trailing a slow, wet path that seemed to seal their flesh together.

"I want you inside me," Lindsay gasped, climbing back on top of him. "Now, Ryan. Now. " She pulled herself up high onto her knees, thighs open wide, and grasped the headboard behind Ryan's shoulders.

"Wait. Condom," he growled.

"Oh God," Lindsay moaned. "Ryan . . ."

Her legs were trembling and would barely support her weight, and she was so wet that she was sure she was dripping down onto Ryan's stomach. He fumbled for his nightstand drawer, but Lindsay yanked it open first, and groped blindly until she felt the foil packet. She tried to tear it open with her teeth, the way Ryan always did, but she was distracted by his fingers. His hands had pushed hard up the inside of her thighs, and his thumbs were parting her, playing with her clit, and then Lindsay felt two, three fingers slide inside, probing and curling, and waves of sensation were rocking her so that she couldn't focus, could scarcely breathe.

"Lindsay. . ." she heard Ryan moan. "Fuck, Lindsay. . . Hurry."

She managed to bite a small slit in the package, then tore it open. Her hands shook, but Ryan covered them with his own and together they managed finally to roll the condom down his shaft. As soon as he was sheathed, Lindsay grabbed the headboard again, lowering herself onto him, carefully at first, and then with reckless abandon until she could feel the full length of him pushing inside, filling her, finding places that she had never known existed.

Ryan's hands slid up and onto her waist. His nails cut into her flesh and he ground his head between her breasts while their bodies rocked together. Ryan was stroking harder now, fiercer and faster and then deeper still when Lindsay's fevered voice panted into his ear. "More. Ryan. Fuck. I want you to. Just . . . oh God." He gritted his teeth and pulled back, entirely body now, pulsing and probing and desperate for release. Lindsay lifted herself away and then plunged down violently at the same moment that Ryan thrust and twisted up and in with all of his strength.

They had never come at the same time before, and the impact was a tidal wave that tore through them both. It shook loose a primal groan that Ryan buried in the damp skin of Lindsay's stomach and a cry that Lindsay muffled against his hair. She let go of the headboard and collapsed against his chest. Her heart was pounding erratically, and Ryan felt his own matching it, struggling to find a rhythm that would allow them to breath normally again.

Finally, Ryan rolled them both over so that they were facing each other. He felt liquid, boneless, idly stroking the smooth expanse of Lindsay's back. For a few long moments they lay together, Ryan still inside her. Then, slowly, he eased himself out.

Cool air claimed him where the heat of her body had been, and Ryan was momentarily bereft. He rolled over to remove the condom, disposed of it with practiced efficiency as Lindsay reached to pull him next to her again.

"So," Ryan murmured, his voice rough and used, "all this time you've wanted to be on top, huh?" He settled himself onto the pillow and drew her close.

Under the cheek she had pressed to his chest, Lindsay could feel his soft, satisfied laugh rumbling. Their bodies were sticky, held close by the natural adhesives of sweat and satisfied desire.

"No. Not all the time." Lindsay answered languorously. "But tonight, well, tonight I thought you owed me, Atwood."

Ryan nodded against her hair, solemn. "I did," he agreed. "I do."

Lindsay walked her fingers down Ryan's arm, enjoying the subtle dance of his muscles under her touch. "Besides, you know, I did it for your own good."

"My own good?"

She raised her head enough to see Ryan smiling down at her.

"Yeah, you did, Lindsay," he agreed. "Really, really good."

"Not that way, mister." Lindsay slapped his hand lightly, then reached up and traced the line of his lips. "I meant, not as much strain on your bad knee or your shoulder. I was being considerate, Ryan. Just thinking about you."

Ryan's smile widened, and then it disappeared. He cupped Lindsay's chin in his hand, lifted her face so that she was looking directly into his eyes. "I know," he said seriously. "I could feel it. Thank you, Lindsay."

"My pleasure," she murmured.

She started to slide back down to the warmth of Ryan's chest when she caught sight of her purse, abandoned on his dresser.

"Oh," she gasped, and began to giggle against Ryan's throat.

"What?"

"I'm so silly! I forgot all about them."

"What?" Ryan asked again. "Forgot who?"

"Not who. What."

He frowned, confused. "Is this 'Who's on First, Lindsay? 'Cause I don't know the next line."

Lindsay shook her head. She pulled back her hair and whispered, suddenly shy. "I can't believe I totally forgot. Tonight. I wanted to . . . surprise you. Do something a little different. So I brought these, I don't know, kind of flavored, edible finger paints?"

"Really?" Ryan's eyes lit with interest. "What flavors?"

"Chocolate. And strawberry. Oh, and caramel, I think. I was going to . . . write my name with them all over your body. You know, so you couldn't possibly forget me, Ryan. I was going to lick them off everywhere. And then. . ." Lindsay flushed and hid her face in the curve of his neck.

"Go on," Ryan urged. "What else?"

"I was . . ." Lindsay closed her eyes. Her confession was a rush of words. "I was going to eat you like a candy bar, Ryan."

A soft laugh started deep inside his chest and finally loosed itself in warm breaths against her chin.

"Lindsay," Ryan said. "You did."

TBC


	19. Chapter 17

Collision Course Chapter 17   
All disclaimers apply and all errors are mine. And as always, thanks for the feedback.   
Chapter 17 

The vibration of Summer's cell phone roused her from the semi-slumber she had been enjoying on Seth's bed. She sat up, checked the display and flipped the phone closed.

"Cohen!" she called softly. "Hey, Cohen, that was Lindsay. She's ready to go." Summer looked down at the floor where Seth was sprawled on his side, ear to the carpet. "What are you doing down there anyway?"

"Giving you room to stretch out on the bed," he claimed, raising his head and running a hand through his floor-flattened curls.

Summer gave an indelicate snort and kicked the leg nearest her. "You were so not. You were trying to hear what was going on in Ryan's room. Perv!"

"Hey!" Seth protested, scrambling gracelessly to his feet. "Ryan could be in serious danger down there alone with Lindsay. Hell hath no fury, remember?"

He danced away in time to avoid the swat Summer aimed at his chest.

"You want to see hell hath no fury?" Summer demanded. She planted her hands on her hips, glaring up at him.

"Okay, yeah, totally got the picture. But come on, Summer. I was just making sure that Ryan didn't need me to, you know, stop Lindsay before she made him sing soprano." Seth retreated again as Summer advanced toward him.

"Just because you saved Chino from being ripped apart by one female tonight does not mean he'll need you to do it again. But speaking of that incident with Jamie . . . come here, Cohen."

Seth looked at Summer warily, shaking his head. "Um . . . no, I don't think so. I kinda want to keep my body parts. You know, they may not be much, but they're mine."

"Come here," Summer repeated firmly.

Seth clenched his eyes and shuffled closer, wincing in anticipation.

"This," Summer said, "is for trying to be a superhero tonight, Cohen." Standing on tiptoe she kissed him gently on the lips.

Seth's eyes flew open.

"Summer?"

"You done good, Cohen. I mean, you failed in the end, but absolutely A for effort. And come to think of it . . ." Summer cocked her head thoughtfully. Then she kissed Seth again, a little longer and deeper, pulling away just as he began to respond.

"Um," Seth stammered, licking his lips. "And what was that for? . . . Not that I'm complaining, you understand, because yeah, definitely not, but . . ."

Summer picked up her shoes by the straps and grabbed her purse. "Well, I just realized—first I kept that walking plastic surgery ad from getting her claws into Chino, and then you kept Jamie from doing the same thing. That kiss was just to say, we make a pretty damn good team, Cohen."

Seth nodded eagerly. "Now see, that's what I've always thought . . ."

"Just don't go thinking it means anything else," Summer warned.

"Conclusions? You? No jumping, Cohen, I mean it."

"No, yeah, got it, we're just . . . a good team," Seth conceded, smiling smugly.

Summer rolled her eyes and picked up her purse. "Night, Cohen."

"Good night," Seth whispered. "No, Summer, hey, wait," he hissed, as she was slipping out. "What walking plastic surgery ad?"

Summer didn't answer. She just smiled and tiptoed downstairs, leaving Seth happy, hopeful, and more than a little confused.

"Sandy," Kirsten whispered. "Sandy, are you asleep?"

"I was," Sandy groaned, pushing a thatch of unruly hair out of his eyes. "What is it, honey?"

"I thought I heard someone on the stairs."

"Must be Seth," Sandy yawned. "We forgot to ground him from midnight snacks. Remind me to do that in the morning"

Kirsten started to settle back into her pillow, but then she sat up again. "Sandy! Didn't you hear that? That was the door . . . You don't suppose the boys . . .?"

"Oh, they wouldn't." Sandy kicked away the covers and crossed to the window in two steps. He pulled back the curtains, peering into the darkness outside. "What the hell?"

"Sandy?" Kirsten demanded, her voice thin with fear. "Did Seth go out? Or Ryan? We have to go after them . . ." She stumbled to the dresser, pulling out street clothes. "God, why would they do this after everything else? I thought they really heard what we were saying . . ."

Sandy put a pacifying hand on her arm. "Sweetheart, stop. It wasn't either of the boys," he reported, leading her back to bed, "It was Lindsay. And Summer. Leaving our house. I cannot believe Seth and Ryan snuck girls in tonight after we grounded them. What do they need? An itemized list of what they're not allowed to do? Because I will be more than happy to provide one." Sandy sighed, exhausted, and rolled over, trying to find the spot on the mattress already warmed by his body. "Okay. I am too tired to deal with anything else right now, but tomorrow, sweetheart . . . tomorrow those boys are going to learn exactly what consequences are. Nana Cohen style, too, if they cost me any more sleep."

Kirsten murmured agreement and burrowed into her favorite spot under Sandy's arm. Then, just as Sandy was drifting back to sleep, Kirsten nudged him.

"Sandy . . ."

"Hmm? Kirsten? What now?"

"Lindsay and Summer? Really . . . why would they be here? Seth and Summer don't go together anymore and Lindsay . . . after what Ryan did, I can't believe she's even speaking to him. What's going on?"

Sandy responded with a soft, and obviously false, snore.

Kirsten glared at him indignantly. "Sandy!" she protested. "Doesn't this bother you at all?"

"Of course it does." Sandy gave a weary sigh. "And I promise you, sweetheart, I'll let it bother me plenty more tomorrow. But for now, could we please get some rest?"

Ryan rolled over. His hand fell flat on the cool emptiness that Lindsay's body had filled a few hours ago, and his eyes fluttered open. Blowing out a defeated breath, he hiked himself up until he was sitting against the headboard, one hand pillowing the back of his neck.

The sun hadn't risen, but he was already awake.

It didn't make sense. He had fallen asleep so easily after Lindsay left. Sated, spent and content, Ryan had found himself smiling drowsily into the dark. His body relaxed and surrendered to oblivion almost before he settled all the way back on the bed.

For a while he enjoyed a deep, dreamless rest, but then something woke him, some nagging, nameless feeling.

Sighing, Ryan pulled a pillow over and hugged it to his chest. He closed his eyes again, taking deep breaths, trying to reclaim the sense of peaceful clarity that had lulled him to sleep by focusing on how last night had ended: soft words from Kirsten, empathy tempering Sandy's anger, a tentative rapprochement with Seth, and then, totally unexpected—undeserved too, Ryan thought—Lindsay's forgiveness.

Making love with her . . . it had felt almost like absolution.

But each memory Ryan summoned pulled along a distorted twin.

Kirsten, having to defend him to her father.

The disappointment on Sandy's face when he realized what Ryan was doing at the foot of the drive.

Seth, trying to extricate Ryan from the tangled mess he created, then getting snared in it himself.

Lindsay carrying her shoes and peeking furtively out of the guest room door, so she could slip away undetected.

Ryan pushed himself back down in bed and thrashed onto his side, wincing.

His efforts to thrust away those memories cleared the way for others instead. They whirled through his brain, a kaleidoscope that dizzied him, images that he wanted to stitch together, or else erase entirely. But Ryan couldn't separate them, couldn't fix anything in place.

_Theresa's last kiss when he left her for Portland._

_Sandy shouting from the stands when Ryan played soccer last year._

_Trey in the back of the police car when they were arrested, flashing him a look of mingled apology, warning and regret._

_Seth waiting at his locker each day after school, ready to erupt into an explosion of words, ready to share everything._

_The metallic tone of the announcement, "This number has been disconnected," when Ryan tried to call Dawn last year and thank her for the Chrismukkah gift that she sent._

_Lindsay's red-gold hair spilling forward whenever she dropped her face to Ryan's chest after they kissed._

_Papers in his hand—the note his mother left when she abandoned him, legal documents from social services making him a number in the system, the rejection letter from UCLA._

_Sandy and Kirsten checking his daily schedule along with Seth's, making sure they always knew where both boys could be found._

_Caleb's curt, silent nod of acknowledgement when he came to the house and Ryan answered the door._

_The impossible pride in Kirsten's eyes when Ryan gave her his first perfect report card last fall._

He had spent the last year working to keep everything in its proper place, but now it all jumbled together. And Ryan needed his world to be neat.

Maybe, he thought, everything seemed warped because he and Lindsay had made love here, in the Cohen house, after Sandy had grounded him. It hadn't felt wrong—it had felt wonderful, even necessary—but now other emotions attached themselves to the act: selfishness; guilt; even a kind of dread.

Ryan wondered how upset they would be if he told Kirsten and Sandy that Lindsay had been with him last night without their knowledge. Or rather, when he told them, because he decided that he had to confess.

But he was just so tired of apologizing for living his life.

For a moment, Ryan considered waking Seth and discussing the whole situation with him, but he couldn't make himself do it. "This is your mess. You clean it up, Atwood," Ryan muttered. Slamming a fist into his pillow, he buried his head in the hollow he had created, and willed himself back into oblivion.

Maybe the saying was true, and things really would look different in the morning.

Julie sat at a patio table, a satin sleep mask pushed high on her forehead. She was massaging her temples between sipping juice and nibbling a maple-nut roll. All outward reminders of the party were gone, except for deep circles under her eyes and a stray centerpiece that had somehow been overlooked when the wait crew packed up. Julie made a mental note to add that to the list of complaints she intended to file. None of the grievances were major but somebody had to insist on high standards of service.

God knows they were paying enough for it.

"Juju," Caleb said shortly, sitting down and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Julie smothered a yawn and looked at him in surprise. "No good morning, Cal? No kiss?" She noticed the expanse of empty space in front of him. "And no newspaper? You always read the financial section with breakfast. What's wrong, darling?" Her voice tensed with foreboding. "Didn't you think the party went well? Because I worked so hard. . ."

"The party was fine. And I know you worked hard." Caleb declared. He turned around, snapped his fingers in the direction of the kitchen, and pointed imperiously to the table. "You must have, since it seems that we actually hosted two parties last night."

Julie squinted at him, trying to focus in the morning glare. She wished that she had remembered her sunglasses, and that she hadn't refused her regular Bloody Mary. A virgin version was no substitute. "Two? What on earth are you talking about, Cal?"

"I've just been on the phone with the security staff. It seems they discovered evidence of a little bacchanalia near the end of the driveway last night." Caleb tapped his fingers against his coffee cup in irritation. "Great work on their part, wouldn't you say? Telling me about it after the fact, instead of when I could have really used the information."

"Wait a minute, Cal. Back up," Julie urged in bewilderment. "A bacchanalia? What . . .?

Caleb snorted. "An orgy, or damn near close to it. Beer bottles, drugs, used condoms."

"Oh my God." Julie hastily swallowed more juice to hide the smile that appeared automatically at the fuzzy memory of similar parties in her past. "Cal, I swear I know nothing about that."

"Good God, Juju, I wasn't suggesting that you did," Caleb retorted. He gave Julie a measuring look, wondering how many misadventures his P.I.s had overlooked when they checked out her past. At the moment, though, that wasn't his concern. "However, I did get descriptions of some of the participants."

He paused, while their cook served his broiled grapefruit and egg-white omelet.

"So?" Julie prompted. "Who was there, Cal?" She leaned forward, attempting to show concern, but feeling a little thrill of happy anticipation at the prospect of a scandal in which she wasn't the star.

Caleb spooned up a grapefruit section and swallowed it with a slight grimace before answering. "Half a dozen members of that teenage and college crowd you insisted on inviting so that Marissa could mingle with the best people, Juju." His lips curled in derision. "So much for good breeding, obviously. Oh . . . and there was somebody else there. Someone we know."

Julie's eyes lit up. "Really?" She shimmied a little in her seat before stopping suddenly and demanding, "Wait. Please don't tell me that Marissa was there. She swore to me that she'd be on her best behavior last night, and I thought she spent most of the evening right here on the terrace. If that girl has found another way to embarrass me . . ."

"Marissa wasn't involved. At least not to my knowledge," Caleb said coolly. He drained the last of his coffee and smiled with bitter satisfaction. "But Ryan was. That boy has finally shown his true colors, Juju. Now I just have to make sure that the right people see them."

Kirsten smoothed a hand over her uncombed hair as she came downstairs and pulled her robe tighter. The rude, insistent sound of the doorbell had wakened her. When she had nudged Sandy, all she had gotten in return was an incoherent, "Hmmph? Wha . . .?" and she was sure the boys were still sleeping off the effects of the previous night. All the effects, she thought grimly.

So it was up to her.

Nine-forty-seven a.m. Not actually that early, except that it was a Sunday morning.

A Sunday morning after a dramatic Saturday night, Kirsten amended. A night that included a party, altercations with Caleb and Julie, a confrontation with Seth and Ryan, and finally an energetic private celebration with Sandy.

No wonder she was exhausted.

Kirsten groaned, half expecting to see her father when she flung open the door. He was tireless when he fixated on a project, and she knew he would want to resume his combination lecture/tirade from last night. Kirsten realized that she'd have to face that conversation sometime, but she really didn't have the energy for it now.

The defensive greeting she had prepared died on her lips when she saw Lindsay and Summer on the threshold.

"Girls?" Kirsten's surprise was obvious. "Good morning. I wasn't . . . expecting you."

Lindsay looked apologetic and a little embarrassed. Summer looked half-asleep.

"Kirsten, hi," Lindsay said uncertainly. "I'm sorry. We woke you, didn't we? We—I—should have called first."

Kirsten shook her head. "No, of course not. You're welcome anytime." Her tone conveyed hospitality, but a little suspicion. "Come on in, girls. Have you had breakfast yet? Would you like anything to eat? Drink?"

"Coffee please," Summer moaned. "Coffee would be good."

"I . . . sort of dragged her here," Lindsay admitted as they all moved to the kitchen. "For moral support."

Summer gave an extravagant yawn, perched on a stool, and cradled her head on the counter. "Wake me when you need me to say something supportive," she murmured. "I'll be right here, dreaming that I'm still asleep."

Kirsten's lips twitched in amusement. She turned on the coffee maker and pulled three mugs from the cabinet, asking over her shoulder, "Why do you need moral support to come here, Lindsay? After all, we're family."

Lindsay chewed her bottom lip and fiddled nervously with strands of hair that had fallen loose from her braid. "I have a confession to make. And an apology. And then a favor to ask."

"Wow," Kirsten observed mildly. "That's a pretty full order for a Sunday morning. So where do you want to start?"

"Um . . . with the confession?" Lindsay suggested. "Oh . . . good morning, Sandy."

Sandy gave her a bleary smile as he shambled into the kitchen. "Morning, Lindsay," he said, his voice raspy and not quite awake. He studied the slumped form at the counter, face hidden under cascading dark hair. "Summer?"

Without rousing, Summer raised a hand lethargically in greeting. "Yeah, it's me. I think. Morning, Mr. Cohen."

Sandy reached over Kirsten's head to take down another coffee mug, dropping a quick kiss on her forehead. "So I didn't dream the doorbell ringing? You poking me in the side to wake me up?"

"No, and no, and I did not poke you. I nudged gently," Kirsten replied, patting his cheek. "Do you want a bagel, honey?"

"Always," Sandy told her, adding, as Kirsten took out the slicer, "No, you handle the coffee. I'm in charge of the actual foodstuff."

Kirsten rolled her eyes. "I can't ruin bagels, Sandy," she protested.

Sandy leaned toward Lindsay, confiding conspiratorially, "That's what she says, but she can't schmear to save her life . . . So, what's up, ladies? To what do we owe the honor of this early morning visit? I hope you're not here to see Ryan and Seth. Because . . ."

"No. No, we came to see you. I mean, I did," Lindsay stammered. She pulled her braid over her shoulder, and tugged nervously at the end of it. "I was about to, well, confess something. And apologize. To Kirsten and . . . well, to both of you, really. Last night I, um, I used the key that you gave me. I let myself in."

Sandy raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Kirsten brought a tray with cream and assorted sweeteners to the counter, then sat down, looking at Lindsay attentively.

"Last night?" she prompted.

Lindsay fixed her eyes on her tightly clasped hands. Her voice was mortified. "Yes. Summer and I were already in the house when you came home from the party. She drove me here after . . . well, you know, Sandy."

Kirsten and Sandy exchanged looks. "Ah," Sandy drawled. "Well, that does explain a few things."

"I know we—I—should have let you know we were here." Now that she had started, Lindsay was eager to finish as quickly as possible, and her words began to tumble over each other. "But I was really upset, and I needed to talk to Ryan, only I knew you guys were upset too, so I was afraid you'd tell me to go home, or even if you didn't, Ryan would refuse to talk to me if he could figure out a way to avoid it. So," she concluded, suddenly exhausted, "I just waited in his room for him."

"We ambushed him." Summer's voice was muted by her arm-pillow, but it managed to sound smug anyway.

"Yes," Lindsay conceded. "We did. I did."

Sandy nodded sagely. "Ah," he said again.

"I know it was wrong and . . . and rude, and presumptuous, and practically trespassing," Lindsay whispered. "I shouldn't have done it. And I'm really sorry. If you guys want your key back . . .." She pulled it from her purse and held it out, her lips twisting apologetically.

Kirsten reached across the counter and covered Lindsay's hand with hers.

"Keep the key, sweetie," she said. "But in the future, Sandy and I would appreciate it if you'd let us know when you use it."

Lindsay bobbed her head in agreement, her eyes still downcast.

Summer raised a finger slightly and tapped her own head. "I'm sorry too," she said, the words half smothered by another yawn.

"Apologies accepted," Sandy laughed. "Bagel? Lindsay?"

"No, but thank you anyway, Sandy."

"Summer?"

"Mm, no thanks. Wait . . . maybe yes. Cinnamon raisin? No cream cheese, though. Too messy." Summer's hand reached out blindly and Sandy put a bagel into it, watching in amusement as she bit into it, eyes still closed.

Kirsten poured the coffee and passed cups around the counter. "So, you and Ryan . . . talked?" she asked Lindsay carefully. "Did you work things out? I know what he did must have been . . . hurtful for you."

Lindsay flushed and tried to hide behind her mug. "It was, but we worked everything out, I think, and . . . I'm really sorry, Kirsten."

"Sweetie, why are you sorry that you and Ryan made up?"

Lindsay's blush deepened painfully. "I'm not. I mean, it's not that. I'm just sorry that Ryan and I . . . that I was here so late last night. With him. In your house and . . . everything. We know we shouldn't have, but . . . things just happened. And I just want you to know. It's was my fault, not Ryan's."

"Oh," Kirsten breathed with sudden comprehension. "I see."

Sandy swallowed a smirk along with his bite of bagel, and his wife shot him a reproachful glance. He sobered instantly, observing, "I just hope you kids . . . made up . . . carefully, Lindsay. You did use . . .?"

"Oh, we did. I mean, we were. Oh God, this is so embarrassing," Lindsay moaned.

Sandy chuckled. "You think this is embarrassing?" he teased. "Check in with Ryan after I have a little talk with him later."

Lindsay's eyes widened and she sank down on her stool.

"Sandy, leave Lindsay alone," Kirsten scolded. "She was brave and honest to come here and tell us what happened, and I'm proud of her for doing that." She went to refill her coffee cup, despite the fact that it was nearly full. As she moved past him, Kirsten whispered in Sandy's ear, "But a talk with Ryan is definitely a good idea."

Summer peeked up from behind her hair. "Linds? Confession made, right? And apology accepted? Maybe it's time to ask for the favor."

"Can you wake up enough to help?" Lindsay begged. "Please? I need you to help me convince them."

"Convince us of what?" Sandy demanded, at the same time that Kirsten inquired, "What favor?"

"Just . . . something we want to do. Today. For Seth and Ryan. We think they really need it, Kirsten."

"Ryan and Seth are both grounded, girls," Sandy told them. "Whatever you have in mind will have to wait. Kirsten and I have our own plans for those boys."

"They said they were on punishment. But please, Sandy . . ." Lindsay began.

When she faltered, looking helplessly from Sandy to Kirsten, Summer jumped in. "Just hear us out, Mr. Cohen. Okay? Listen to our arguments, and then make your decision."

"Oh, so you two are the lawyers and I'm the judge," Sandy concluded. He looked over at Kirsten, who smiled and shrugged. "All right, ladies. I'll hear your case. But only because I always wondered what it would be like to sit on the bench . . . Honey, do we actually have a bench?"

Sandy strode briskly into Ryan's bedroom and flung open the curtain, letting in the insistent sunlight. To enhance the rise-and-shine effect, he began singing an improvised song with the "Happy Birthday" tune and "Good Morning" lyrics.

Ryan groaned, throwing a protective forearm over his closed eyes. The last time he had checked the clock, it was 4:15, and every muscle in his body was protesting a lack of sleep. He tried to burrow deeper into his pillow and cover his ears at the same time.

"Oh no you don't, kid," Sandy warned. He pried Ryan's arm away from his face and pulled him, not too gently, into an upright position. "Time to get up."

Ryan grudgingly opened his eyes and squinted past Sandy at Seth, who stood slumped and half-conscious in the doorway.

"Don't look at me, man," Seth shrugged. "Dad must be channeling his inner camp counselor. He just did the same wakey-wakey routine with me upstairs. Hint: if you don't move fast enough, he'll help you get dressed too."

Ryan's eyes widened in alarm. "Getting up now," he promised, his voice raw and deeper than usual. He started to struggle out from under the comforter. Then he hastily wrapped it around his waist instead, remembering just in time that he wasn't wearing any clothes, and that his chest sported several incriminating marks. "I can handle getting dressed by myself, Sandy."

"Glad to hear it," Sandy said cheerfully. "Okay, now, boys, here's the deal--"

"Wait," Ryan blurted. "Before you say anything else, Sandy. Just . . . wait."

Sandy's eyebrows furrowed in surprise, but he stopped talking.

Ryan blew out a breath and clutched the comforter tighter, bracing himself. "I just . . . you're not going to like it, but I've got to tell you. Last night . . . Lindsay was here."

Behind Sandy's back, Seth grimaced and shook his head violently, but Ryan ignored him. His eyes fixed on Sandy, expecting an inevitable emotion, anger or disappointment.

"Was she now?" Sandy asked neutrally.

Ryan blinked, surprised at the bland response. "Yeah," he confirmed. "I know that I'm grounded and I should have told her to go home, but I . . . wanted the chance to make things right between us."

"I see. So, did you?"

Ryan nodded warily. He wasn't sure what to make Sandy's continued indifference. "I think so. But . . . well, I'm sorry. For letting her stay without permission, I mean. I'll apologize to Kirsten too."

"Good idea," Sandy agreed. He gave Ryan a brief, penetrating look, then glanced back over his shoulder at Seth. "Anything you want to add to this discussion, son?"

"No. I don't think so. Well, maybe. Let me think. Okay, yeah," Seth stammered. "Summer was here last night too. In my room. With me."

"Waiting for Lindsay," Ryan interjected.

"Yeah," Seth confirmed, "or, I mean, well . . . yeah. That's why she came anyway. So . . . right, Dad. What Ryan said. Sorry. At least, well, you know, not sorry-sorry, but, yeah, sorry."

Sandy grinned. "Confession is good for the soul, isn't it?" He rubbed his palms together. "Okay, you guys have thirty minutes to get yourselves ready for the day. Shower, eat, have some coffee, brush your teeth—whatever you need to do. Then I expect both of you out on the patio. Your mother and I have a list of chores that you need to finish before two o'clock today."

"Chores?" Seth echoed in disbelief. "Today? Dad, today is Sunday. Day of rest, remember? Day of slow-motion movement. Day of ginormous newspapers with many, many informative articles and three really challenging crossword puzzles. Ryan, tell him."

Bemused, Ryan peered at Sandy and hazarded a half-smile. "The Sunday crossword puzzles are really challenging for Seth," he said innocently.

Sandy coughed to smother a laugh.

"See Dad? Even Ryan agrees with me, not that his opinion really counts where words are involved, but . . . Wait a minute. Challenging 'for Seth'?" Seth's eyes widened in mock-indignation. "'For Seth?' . . . Tried to slip that one past me, didn't you, dude? See, I do listen . . . Anyway, back on point. Dad, since when do we do chores on Sunday?"

"Since when do you two drink and smoke marijuana?" Sandy countered.

Seth winced. "Ouch. But Dad, as I believe I pointed out last night, the drinking, the smoking—two separate activities, two separate sons doing them . . ."

Ryan stopped gathering his clothes and darted a startled glance over his shoulder at the phrase "two sons."

True, Sandy sometimes called Seth and Ryan jointly "my kids," but Ryan assumed he meant the phrase the way teachers did when they used it to talk about their students: an inclusive expression, even an endearment, but one that didn't imply any real connection. And Ryan had become accustomed to the Cohens referring to him as a member of the family. That was a vague term, though; it could mean a distant cousin, an honorary uncle, someone who still had to wear a nametag to be acknowledged at a reunion. Even Seth's "bro" meant little more than his ubiquitous "dudes" and "mans."

"Two sons"? That was different. It was specific and significant and Ryan didn't understand how Seth could just toss it blithely into the middle of the conversation. He looked at Sandy closely, searching for a reaction that would mirror his own. All Ryan saw on Sandy's face was amused irritation as Seth spun an increasingly convoluted argument involving Jesus, Moses, and biblical precedents for keeping Sundays chore-free.

"You gave it a shot, Seth. Let it go," Ryan cautioned, heading for the bathroom. "My guess? Your dad's not in the mood for your unique logic today."

"Good guess, kid." Sandy smiled, propelling Seth out of the doorway and all the way into the bedroom as he left. Once in the hall, he paused, stretched ostentatiously, and volleyed a parting shot. "Now that you guys are moving, I think I'll kick back, put my feet up, and relax. Nothing I love more than a long, lazy Sunday morning with nothing to do. Except maybe a good crossword puzzle. Or three."

"Funny!" Seth called after him. "You're a funny man, Dad."

He collapsed onto Ryan's vacated bed and promptly closed his eyes, sputtering awake minutes later when Ryan emerged from the bathroom and dropped a damp towel on his face.

"I don't get to sleep, you don't get to sleep," Ryan growled. "Seth, what is going on with your dad? He was so pissed last night, and now he didn't even seem upset about Lindsay and Summer being here."

Seth wrestled the towel off his head. "Okay, that's two rude awakenings in one morning. Cruel and unusual, dude. And don't forget, Dad woke me up first. You got ten extra minutes of shut-eye out of the deal. Of course . . . " His eyes gleamed and he added meaningfully, "maybe you needed it."

Ryan glared at him.

"No, hey, dude, I meant because you got up early yesterday to make breakfast. That's all," Seth claimed. "Unless, you know, it's not." He started to get up, fell back on the bed, and stretched an arm up with a beseeching smile. Ryan rolled his eyes, but he reached down and hoisted Seth to his feet, then took the towel back into the bathroom and draped it over the shower rod to dry.

"Yeah," Seth continued conversationally, as he finger-combed his hair in front of the mirror. "I don't know what the hell's gotten into Dad this morning. It's like his Grinch-y heart has grown two sizes too small overnight. You'd think that the never-ending grounding would satisfy him. Now he's adding chores? On a Sunday? And what is the deal with things having to be done by two o'clock? What things? Why two?"

"Don't know, don't know, and also do not know," Ryan answered. "Come on, Seth. We've got exactly twenty-four minutes to have breakfast."

"And speed read the paper, dude. Don't forget that. If my fingers aren't stained by newspaper ink on a Sunday, civilization as we know it ceases to exist." Seth slouched after Ryan to the kitchen, almost barreling into him when Ryan halted abruptly in the doorway. He peered over Ryan's shoulder to see why he stopped.

"Whoa," he breathed.

"Yeah," Ryan murmured, scanning the room. "Whoa."

"Ryan?" Seth asked, his voice bewildered. "What the hell happened in here?"

TBC


	20. Chapter 18

Same disclaimers, same thanks for all the feedback.   
Collision Course 18 

Seth and Ryan froze, staring bewildered at the scene in front of them.

The kitchen was a mess, with sticky notes plastered everywhere: "Clean me," on the counter, which was smudged with cream cheese, peanut butter, and at least two kinds of jelly; "Wash me," on a stack of dirty dishes; "Rinse me," on the grimy coffee maker; "Fill me," on an empty juice carafe; "Sweep me," staring up at them from the soiled floor.

Seth tiptoed around the room warily. "Ryan?" he whispered, as if the place was a crime scene and the murderer might still be lurking within earshot. "What in the names of Jesus and Moses do you suppose happened here?"

Ryan touched a finger to the sticky surface of the counter and hazarded a guess. "Your parents had breakfast? Lots of breakfast? With their eyes closed?"

"Yeah," Seth murmured. "And maybe right after they read **_Alice in Wonderland_**." Ryan shook his head blankly and he explained, "The bottle? The cake? 'Drink me'? 'Eat me'? . . . Okay, I did not just say that . . . Anyway, Ryan, look at this. I mean, it's Mom's handwriting, but . . . do you suppose it's some kind of code?" Seth pulled a "Scrub me" note off the sink and turned it over looking for clues.

Both boys jumped slightly when Kirsten's voice startled them out of their stupor. "Oh, good morning, Ryan. Seth. Glad to see you up and around finally." She waved casually as she strolled to the French doors, carrying the magazine section and a bottle of sunscreen. Automatically, silently, Seth and Ryan each raised a hand in dazed greeting.

Kirsten paused before she went outside to smile and add, "Be sure to finish those little jobs before you come out, all right? You have, let's see, twenty minutes now."

"We have twenty minutes," Seth repeated numbly. "Ryan . . . dude . . . something is so not right here. I don't mind telling you, I'm scared. I am very, very cue-the-Twilight-Zone-music-scared. Maybe the 'rents are punishing us by, I don't know? Becoming pod people overnight?"

Ryan stared with dismay at the stacks of dirty dishes, cups and silverware. "It doesn't make sense. How could they use so much stuff just for breakfast for two people? When they didn't even cook? It's like they messed things up on purpose . . . Seth, they wouldn't mess things up on purpose, would they? Just to make work for us?"

"Hey, man, I don't know what 'they' would do," Seth admitted. He clenched his eyes shut, opened them again and shivered. "I'm not sure who 'they' are."

Ryan frowned, looking pensively out the window at Kirsten and Sandy who were stretched out in neighboring deck chairs, their fingers touching lightly on Kirsten's armrest. The scene looked relaxed and normal, but Ryan had the uneasy feeling that something had been deliberately skewed, that he and Seth were being kept off balance on purpose.

He could imagine Sandy doing it—manufacturing some contrived circumstance that would force them to interact. But it would be something believable like the situations he'd already arranged—mandatory family dinners, Seth having to chauffer him to rehab. Not like this. This was just really . . . silly.

But maybe, Ryan thought, that was the whole point.

For the past couple weeks, every encounter in the Cohen household had been so intense, so fraught with import and potential pain. Maybe this morning, Sandy and Kirsten wanted to lighten the mood somehow.

Ryan suddenly became aware that Seth was watching him, eyes dark with anxiety.

"What are you thinking, dude?"

Ryan shrugged.

"No, seriously," Seth persisted. "Metaphorical wheels turning, gears grinding, light bulbs flashing . . . I got a whole rumination-on-the-verge-of-eureka vibe just now."

"You got all that, huh?"

Seth idly rearranged the nearest post-it notes so that "Empty me" wound up on a box of Cap'n Crunch instead of the garbage compactor.

"Yeah, well, I like to think of myself as the resident expert on Atwood non-speak," Seth explained. "So what about it, Joe Hardy, have you solved the mystery of the messy eaters?"

Ryan glanced at the message on the cereal box and obligingly shook out a handful of Cap'N Crunch. "I'm not sure," he admitted around meticulous bites. "It just seems like . . .maybe Sandy and Kirsten thought we needed, I don't know, an icebreaker or something to get us talking this morning."

"Okay, yeah, but no, Ryan, an icebreaker?" Seth wrinkled his forehead dubiously. "Like that 'Two truths and a lie' game we always played the first afternoon at Camp Tuckahoe? Which, incidentally, was pretty much a complete waste of time because for the game to work the lie has to be plausible, and really, how many twelve-year-old boys have been on a space trip to the moon or own talking monkeys, or are in the Guinness Book of World Records for the world's biggest--"

"Seth!"

"Hey, man, it wasn't my lie. I said that I won the America's Cup. Although that actually wasn't so much a lie as a prediction, I mean if I ever decide to sail competitively . . . But anyway, why would we need an icebreaker, Ryan?" Seth asked, finally pausing to breathe. "We're already talking, right? I mean, we are talking, aren't we?"

Ryan's lips quirked in a rueful half-smile. "You are, definitely."

"No, see, that's what I mean," Seth declared, almost knocking over the juice in his enthusiasm. "Banter, give-and-take, a little of this, a little of that, just a classic Seth-Ryan exchange. Okay, we may be a little rusty after . . . everything, but it's all coming back to us, isn't it, bro?"

"Sure, Seth. It's all coming back."

Sidestepping Seth, Ryan went to the cabinet and got out the Tylenol. He swallowed two of the pills, then splashed some cold water over his face, scrubbing it dry with the sleeve of his shirt.

Seth eyed him with concern. "You okay, Ryan?"

"Little headache," Ryan explained. "Not enough sleep. And probably too much . . . well, other things."

"Me too," Seth confessed, shredding the post-it note he was holding. "Well, maybe not the same other things, but too much anyway . . . Ryan, you really think the 'rents are worried about us talking to each other?"

Ryan's face clouded momentarily, but before he could answer Sandy's voice called from outside, snapping him back into the moment.

"Guys! You better be working in there. Seventeen minutes and counting . . ."

Seth and Ryan exchanged panicked looks.

"Shit," Seth breathed. "Do you think he means it? He actually expects us to do all . . . this? In seventeen minutes?"

"I think," Ryan said slowly, "we have to assume he does. So . . .?"

Seth surveyed the room, plucked off a post-it note and stuck it to Ryan's sling. "Counter top for you, my man Atwood." He flexed his arms, adding dramatically, "I personally will take all the jobs that require two working hands . . ."

"'Working' hands?" Ryan repeated, lifting one eyebrow.

"Okay, fine," Seth conceded. "Not hands that are used to working exactly, but hands that can work, so yeah, still, working hands . . ." He mimed a broad illustration, stopping mid-gesture to grab for the broom Ryan thrust at him.

"Oh yeah," Ryan drawled, as Seth fumbled the catch and the broom fell to the floor. "I can see your point. You are one with the work, Seth."

Seth grinned and started to sweep.

"Of course I know it's Sunday," Caleb snapped into the phone. "I simply don't care. The man is on retainer. His time is mine if I need him. So get him from church, or the golf course—wherever it is he's 'worshipping' this morning—and have him call me as soon as possible."

He hung up and shook open his newspaper, creasing it precisely on the fold as Julie sauntered out from the house. The circles under her eyes were gone, or at least artfully concealed with makeup, and she was dressed in a casually expensive lilac sweat suit.

"I'm going to the club for a sauna, darling," she announced. "Event planning is just so stressful. And then I may do a teeny bit of shopping, but I should be home by late afternoon." Julie stood behind Caleb, reading the stock market figures over his shoulder and kneading the base of his neck. "Ooh, Cal, maybe you should come with me and get a massage. I feel a lot of tension here . . ."

Caleb shrugged her off. "I have other ways of dealing with my tension, Juju."

"Yes, I know you do." Julie leaned down, whispering in his ear. "But maybe we could do that later, Cal? I'm still tired, and you know I like to be at my best for you . . ."

Caleb turned and glared at her. "I am not asking you for sex, Julie. Right now I happen to have other things on my mind."

"Well, I'm sorry," Julie huffed, offended. She retreated, holding up her hands. "What has you in such a foul mood anyway?"

"I'm waiting for my attorney to call me back. And I do not enjoy being kept waiting."

Julie took a mirror out of her bag and pouted at her reflection as she reapplied some lip-gloss. "Why do you need to talk to Sandy?" she asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"If I had meant Sandy, I would have said Sandy," Caleb snorted. "I want to talk to Phil Styles about that extracurricular activity at the party last night."

Julie clicked her mirror closed and dropped it back into her bag. "You mean Ryan's behavior? Darling, you don't need to talk to Phil about that," she declared. "I can tell you exactly what your legal options are. You don't have any. Really, Cal, it wasn't some major orgy. Just kids being kids, that's all. Besides, you don't have any proof of anything."

"You weren't so sanguine when you thought Marissa might be involved."

"Oh well, darling. Marissa is a whole different matter. If there's a way to self-destruct, she'll find it," Julie explained, waving her hand vaguely. She frowned as she noticed a chipped nail and made a mental note to have it repaired.

Caleb speared another grapefruit segment and swallowed it with an acid scowl. "In any case, I wasn't thinking about having the boy arrested," he protested. "I can hardly afford to alienate my daughters that way. But if Ryan is doing drugs and behaving promiscuously, I need to know what recourse I have to protect my family. After all, he lives like a parasite in Kirsten's house, he has undue influence on my grandson, and now he's dating Lindsay . . ."

Julie pursed her lips and considered. "Maybe not any more," she observed thoughtfully.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Lindsay did leave the party in tears, didn't she? Maybe she already knows how Ryan . . . entertained himself last night. That could be why she was so upset."

Caleb contemplated the idea, smiling with satisfaction. "And Lindsay is a very bright girl. So she might already have ended their ridiculous little romance."

"Possibly," Julie agreed. She added with a faraway expression that let Caleb know she was reminiscing about her own life, "Of course, couples do kiss and make up. That's always fun . . ." Caleb glared, and she insisted, "Well, darling, you know that they do. Unless, of course, some clever person sees to it that forgiveness is out of the question."

Caleb looked at Julie and nodded slowly, his expression both angry and admiring. She smiled and batted her eyes.

"When will you learn, Cal? I am much smarter than I look." Julie leaned close, lowering her voice. "My talents aren't just physical, darling."

Caleb caught her hand and kissed it. "So," he murmured, "what do you suggest I do?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you there." Julie sighed regretfully. "I fought my own battles with Ryan about Marissa, and I didn't have a lot of success. But I can tell you that threatening him doesn't work. It just makes him more determined." She patted Caleb's cheek, and picked up her bag. "But I have faith in you, darling. You'll think of something. Just remember what they say . . . think outside the box."

Twenty-two minutes after they had begun Seth and Ryan, both munching bagels, emerged sweaty and a little breathless from the kitchen. Kirsten and Sandy looked up from their newspapers, and Sandy pointedly checked his watch.

"Done," Seth announced. He started to plop into the lawn chair next to his father and had to scramble to keep his balance when Sandy yanked the seat out from under him. "Dad, hey, come on! Nobody's done that to me since . . ."

"English lit?" Ryan supplied. "Three weeks ago? That girl, Cassie, after you said the poem she wrote sounded like lyrics for a Brittney Spears song?"

Seth shrugged, chewing. "Oh yeah. That. Not one of my finer moments, dude. Although to be fair, I made a really graceful recovery . . ."

"You fell on your ass, Seth."

"I made the graceful recovery after I fell on my ass, Ryan."

"Boys!" Kirsten admonished. She covered a secret smile. "Don't say 'ass'."

Sandy tapped his watch face. "And don't sit down, gentlemen. You don't have time. You're three minutes behind schedule already." He furrowed his brows menacingly. "Not acceptable. When we give you a deadline, we expect you to meet it."

Kirsten got up, sipping her ice tea, and glanced into the house. "Now, sweetheart, at least they did a good job. The kitchen looks spotless."

'Yeah, and, about that," Seth began, taking a defensive step away from his father. "What happened in there anyway?"

"It got dirty," Kirsten said mildly. She returned to perch on the foot of Sandy's chaise lounge.

Seth looked at Ryan, who shrugged. "I told you not to ask, man." He backed toward a chair, started to sit down and then pulled himself back to a standing position when Sandy glared at him. "So . . . what did you want us to do next?"

"And I told you not to ask that," Seth protested. "See . . . now he's going to answer you."

"Yes, son, yes I am," Sandy said heartily. "Your mother and I have decided to have a few people over today."

"Today?' Ryan echoed.

Seth shook his head in disbelief. "A few people? Over . . . here?"

Sandy grinned. "I'm glad you boys understood all that. After your misadventures with controlled substances last night, I wasn't sure you'd be able to follow a complicated conversation like this."

Ryan caught a flash of movement and glanced over to see Kirsten, trying to hide laughter behind her magazine. He nudged Seth who followed his gaze and then mouthed to Ryan, "They are so up to something."

Sandy drained the last of his ice tea, got up, and continued, "So here's the deal. We need the patio and all the furniture out here wiped down. Oh, and the pool cleaned, and the hedges over there clipped. Seth, those are your jobs."

"Mine?" Seth objected, spinning around to stare at his father. "Yeah, but no, Dad, that's, like, physical labor. You know, sweat, sore muscles, actual tools and the ability to use them without severing a limb? Not exactly Seth Cohen-friendly."

"We have every faith in you, son."

Seth turned desperately to Ryan.

"Oh no," Kirsten warned, before Seth could say anything. "Ryan needs to avoid wet areas. He can't afford to slip out here and re-injure his knee. Besides, those jobs all take two hands."

Ryan lifted his sling apologetically. "I could still help . . ."

"But you won't," Kirsten cautioned in her no-argument voice.

"Don't worry, Seth," Sandy said, clapping a hand on his son's slumped shoulder before turning to Ryan. "We have work for Ryan too . . .You, kid, are in charge of the food."

Seth looked at his father suspiciously. "So Ryan has to do what? Choose a menu and phone in the order? 'Cause see now, I'm sensing a little favoritism here . . ."

"Actually," Sandy explained, lifting his abundant eyebrows in admonition, "Caleb's party was catered, so we thought it would be nice to have home-cooked food today. And since you managed breakfast yesterday, Ryan, we figure you can handle this too. Nothing fancy. Burgers will be fine, maybe some of those grilled fruit and vegetable kabobs you make, some salad. Something for dessert. Surprise us."

"Oh . . . kay," Ryan said slowly. "How many people are you expecting?"

Sandy looked at Kirsten. "Sweetheart?"

"Oh, eight I think," she answered vaguely. "Make enough food for ten, though. Some of them might have hearty appetites . . . Well, Sandy, we should clear out so the boys can get to work. Besides, reading the paper has exhausted me. I think I'm ready for a nap. You?"

"A nap?" Seth choked. "It's not even noon."

"She means a nap," Sandy said, stressing the last word significantly. "And sweetheart, I am so ready."

He leered at Kirsten, looped his arm around her waist, and led her into the house. Behind them, Seth made gagging noises.

"Stop that, son," Sandy ordered, without turning around. "And get to work."

Lindsay began talking excitedly the instant she opened her front door.

"Everything's all set, Summer, and . . . Oh!" She stopped and took a step back, frowning in surprise. "Caleb . . . or, I mean, I guess . . . Dad? I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting . . . that is, I thought you were Summer."

Caleb forced a chuckle in an attempt to put Lindsay at ease. "Apparently so, although I can't see the resemblance myself." She didn't smile, and he gestured inside the house. "May I?"

Lindsay moved aside with a guilty blush. "Of course. I'm sorry. It's just . . . Please, come on in."

Caleb looked around the small room, his lips pursed appraisingly. "Your home is charming, Lindsay. Cozy. I'm glad I finally have the opportunity to see it."

"Thank you. I guess," Lindsay murmured, standing uncertainly just inside the front door. "I mean . . . My mother's not home if you were looking for her."

"May I?" Caleb asked again, inclining his head toward a chair. Lindsay nodded mutely, and he took a seat. "Actually, I stopped by to see you. I hope it's not an inconvenient time." He settled back, evidently intending to stay.

Lindsay took a deep breath. "You know what?" she said, lifting her chin. "It really kind of is. I don't mean to be rude, but I have plans this afternoon. So maybe we could do this—whatever this is—some other time . . .?"

"You seem upset, Lindsay," Caleb observed. "Is that because of what happened last night?"

Lindsay's skin paled and then flamed painfully. Her fingers tightened around the doorknob, clutching it behind her. "What do you know about last night?" she demanded. Despite her attempt to control it, an involuntary quaver in her voice signaled her anxiety.

"I know that you made a last-minute appearance at my party," Caleb replied, his voice cool and evasive. "But you left before I even had a chance to greet you or introduce you to my guests. Julie told me she saw you leaving. She said that you were in tears." He leaned forward, fixing Lindsay with an intent look. "You're my daughter. I'm concerned about you. That's why I decided to stop by today—to see if you're all right."

"Well, you can see me," Lindsay said, pressing her lips together. "Obviously I'm fine."

Caleb shook his head, dismissing her claim. "You have your pride, my dear. I appreciate that. It's an admirable quality, one that I share. But it's clear to me that you are not fine at all. Did something happen at the party? Was someone rude to you there? Hurt your feelings, perhaps? Now I know it's late in the game for me to play father . . ."

"You're right," Lindsay agreed curtly. "It is." She turned the knob and stepped forward, opening the door behind her. "Anyway, I don't need your help. Everything's fine." When Caleb made no move to get up, Lindsay sighed and added reluctantly, "Look, I had a . . . misunderstanding with Ryan last night, that's all. And yes, I was crying. But we straightened everything out, so there's nothing for you to worry about. Now, if you'll excuse me, Summer should be here any minute . . ."

Caleb's eyes flashed briefly before he caught himself. "So then, I take it that you and Ryan . . .?"

Lindsay's expression softened and she ducked her head, smiling shyly. "We made up," she confirmed.

"I see," Caleb said tightly. He stood to leave. "Lindsay, are you really sure about that boy? I mean, if he made you cry once . . ."

"I'm very sure about Ryan. And you know what?" Lindsay retorted. "Lots of people have made me cry in my life. Like my father, for instance, all those times when I wanted him and he wasn't around."

"I've explained why I couldn't be part of your life . . ." Caleb paused, waiting, but Lindsay just gave him a long, measured stare. "Well," he said finally, "I'm here now, Lindsay. And as your father, I do intend to take care of you . . . But I won't keep you now if you're expecting company. We'll talk again soon, my dear."

Lindsay gave a noncommittal nod, murmured goodbye, and closed the door.

As soon as he got in his car, Caleb took out his cell phone and dialed his security company. He didn't bother saying hello before launching into a clipped series of commands.

"Caleb Nichol. I want a full report on the illicit party that took place on my grounds last night. ASAP. Get me a complete list of the participants . . . Yes, everything you can tell me about them. In particular the young lady who was spending time with Ryan Atwood."

"Guys? Everything all set?" Sandy called as he and Kirsten ambled into the kitchen, looking rejuvenated, relaxed, and definitely satisfied.

From their slumped positions at the counter, Seth and Ryan glanced up, exhausted.

Seth waved a hand listlessly toward the French doors and murmured a barely audible "Yeah." Then he turned to Ryan. "Dude," he moaned, "look what they've done. They've made me too tired to produce more than one single-syllable word at a time."

"Um . . . Seth?" Ryan frowned and cocked his head toward Sandy, who was soulfully playing an imaginary violin.

"Oh. Sort of spoiled the whole verbal collapse thing by talking to you in complete sentences, huh?"

"Sort of," Ryan agreed. He massaged the back of his neck wearily. "The food's all prepared, Sandy. It's in the refrigerator, ready to be grilled."

"And?" Sandy prompted.

Ryan's eyes widened. "What?" he asked, dismayed. "I'm supposed to do the grilling too? But I thought . . . Don't you want to do it yourself, Sandy? You know, during your party so you can cook the burgers to order?"

"Yeah, Dad," Seth interjected. "You like to grill, right? Besides, Ryan and I figured we'd just go to our rooms, let you and mom enjoy some adult company—you know, since we're grounded and all, which we so totally deserve, by the way. And then there's the whole 'children should not be seen and heard' deal . . ."

"The expression is 'children should be seen and not heard'," Sandy admonished. "And I'm afraid that's impossible in your case, son. If we see you, we hear you."

Seth tried to glower, but it was too much work. Instead he elbowed Ryan in the side and pleaded, "Dude? Could you give Dad the glare of doom for me, please?"

"Can't," Ryan mumbled. "Eyes closed now. Trying to squeeze in a five-minute nap."

"Ooh, is that shortcake? Good dessert choice," Kirsten observed, peeking into the refrigerator. "Don't worry, Ryan. You're not in charge of the grill today. And neither is Sandy. That honor goes to . . ."

Seth clasped his hands together dramatically. "Don't say it. Please don't say it."

"The Grillmaster himself, Mr. Seth Ezekiel Cohen," Kirsten concluded.

"Fuck," he muttered. "She said it."

"Language, son," Sandy reproved. "And just be grateful that your mother didn't say she'd do the cooking. Anyway, I'm sure Ryan will be more than happy to help."

Ryan produced a wan smile. "Yeah," he sighed. "More than happy."

"You know, though, guys, you'd better hustle and get yourselves cleaned up." Sandy eyed the boys critically. "The guests will be arriving soon and frankly . . . well, you both look like hell."

Seth groaned audibly as he pulled himself to his feet. "Yeah. Wonder why. And by the way? Language, Dad."

Ryan emerged from the guest room, showered but scarcely refreshed, just as Seth hobbled downstairs, clutching the banister as if his legs were about to buckle under him.

"Aches. Pains. Major muscle spasms," Seth groaned, dropping onto the last step. "I cannot believe Mom and Dad are actually going to make us work this party like . . . like . . . indebted servants or something."

Ryan collapsed into the nearest chair. He ran his fingers through his damp hair, yawning. "Indentured."

"Huh?" Seth raised his head, which he had cradled on his crossed arms.

"Indentured servants. Not indebted."

Seth mouthed the words, trying them out and then shrugged. "Inde-whatever. The point, Ryan, is that the 'rents have been giving us all these bizarre chores that really don't need to be done and being totally too cool for school about it, which is really age-inappropriate of them. It's like madness but no method, you know?"

"Maybe not," Ryan mused. "They could be playing us, Seth."

"Yeah, and that game would be what now?"

Ryan traced patterns on the floor with the tip of his crutch. "Keep us busy, keep us confused, keep us talking about what's going on with them instead of what's going on with us."

Seth looked up, suddenly apprehensive. "Why? What's going on with us?"

"Nothing. It's just . . . maybe they think we need a break," Ryan suggested. "From all the . . . drama, I mean . . ."

"Drama," Seth repeated flatly. "Right. That's what we need. A break from the drama."

There was an uneasy silence. Then Ryan gave an apologetic shrug. "Hey, it's just a theory, Seth. Probably wrong. It could be that, you know, this is all just some weird punishment. Kirsten and Sandy were really pissed last night. Especially Sandy."

"But that was hours ago," Seth moaned. "Isn't there a statute of limitations on parental anger? I mean, couldn't we maybe appeal to Amnesty International or something? Look at my hands, man. I have blisters. Blisters, Ryan. Three of them." Seth held up his palms plaintively. "And they hurt."

"They won't once they turn into calluses."

"Okay then, something to look forward to. Or, you know, not." Seth's brows lowered in a dubious frown. "Because don't you have to work, like, a lot to develop calluses, dude?"

Ryan inspected his own hands, briefly sucking a small cut at the base of his thumb. For a moment, he remembered the early days last summer when he was working construction, the heavy gloves that didn't completely cushion his skin, the constant sting of his palms and fingers before they developed a protective hard shell.

"I don't think you need to worry about that, Seth," he said shortly.

Seth thought he heard an accusation, and his eyes flashed for a moment, but then he flinched. Unsure whether he should feel angry or guilty or just really sad, he decided to ignore Ryan's caustic tone.

If his parents were scheming to keep things light, Seth was more than happy to play along.

"Ah," he said, bobbing his head hopefully. "So you don't think the parents intend to keep up this child labor routine all during spring break? Because really, how much entertaining can they do anyway? I mean, I love them and all, Ryan, but they are not that popular."

"Well, I don't think they'll throw a party every day," Ryan conceded. "The work thing in general, though? Yeah, they might keep that going."

"Shit," Seth groaned. "Well, all I can say is that it's a good thing I have Summer's visit last night to sustain me." He brightened visibly, grinning at Ryan. "By the way, dude, did I happen to mention that Summer kissed me last night?"

Ryan shook his head. "You did not mention that. I'm stunned that you did not mention that." He looked at Seth with surprise and something like respect.

"Yeah, well, Summer says it didn't really mean anything. Either time." Seth paused, waited for the words to register, and then repeated, "That's right, Ryan. Either time. Two kisses. Two of them, right on the lips. Tell me that two kisses on the lips don't really mean anything. Personally, methinks the lady doth protest too much. What do you thinks? Think, I mean?"

"I don't know, Seth," Ryan said slowly. "I mean, that's great, I guess. But . . . isn't Summer still with Zach?"

"'With' is kind of a vague word, Ryan. Maybe she's with him, but not with him with him. You know what I mean?"

"Unfortunately, yeah . . . But no matter what's going on in their relationship, Zach is your friend, isn't he, Seth?"

Something in Ryan's voice alerted Seth, and his smile dimmed, then vanished completely. "Yeah," he replied carefully. "He is. So . . .?"

Ryan ducked his head, rubbing an invisible smudge of dirt off the arm of his chair. "So I just think . . . friendship has got to count for something."

"It does," Seth agreed seriously. He tried to catch Ryan's gaze, but it remained locked on some apparently subterranean spot. "It totally does, Ryan."

Seth waited uncomfortably for Ryan to look up or say something else, but suddenly the conversation seemed to be over.

Keeping things light, Seth decided, was definitely harder than any of the jobs he had done today.

"Man," he muttered after a couple minutes of silence. "You'd think after Mom and Dad rushed us all afternoon, they'd be here already. It's two-twenty. Wasn't this party supposed to start like, half an hour ago?"

Ryan's eyes were closed. "Thought so," he said shortly.

Seth jiggled his legs and tapped his fingers against his knees. "So . . ." he said, grabbing the first subject that occurred to him. "How did it go with Lindsay last night? I mean, I can pretty much guess, but . . . You guys are okay after the whole Jamie fiasco, right? Everything forgiven and forgotten? Maybe even, I don't know, some hot, hot make-up sex right here in the big house?"

Ryan's eyes opened to slits. "Seth . . ." he warned.

"Yeah, no, not digging for details here, dude. But Lindsay was in your room for quite a while, so I mean, that's good, isn't it? Because after all, nothing really happened with Jamie . . ."

"Seth . . ." Ryan repeated, his mouth closing firmly on the end of Seth's name.

"So . . . what? What's wrong? Lindsay's not still mad, is she?"

The subject had appeared safe, but now Seth wasn't sure. Conversations with Ryan had never been peppered with booby traps before, but now it seemed to Seth that he had to sidestep them constantly.

Ryan blew out a frustrated breath. "No, she's not. She was never mad exactly. It's just . . . complicated, Seth."

"I don't get it. Complicated how?"

Ryan shrugged.

"How, Ryan?" Seth persisted. "Come on, dude. You can talk to me."

"I don't know, Seth," Ryan said slowly. "Can I?"

The doorbell rang, startling both boys.

"Seth! Ryan!" Sandy called. "Are you two ready? Your guests are here."

Ryan and Seth aimed identical incredulous expressions to the top of the stairs, where Sandy was leaning over the balustrade.

Surprisingly, Ryan was the first to find his voice.

"Our guests?" he asked.

TBC


	21. Chapter 19

The characters belong to Schwartz and company. And thanks for the great feedback.

Chapter 19 

"Boys, it's very rude to keep guests waiting," Kirsten reproved, entering the foyer as the doorbell rang a second time. "Isn't anyone going to get the door?"

Seth nodded. "Ryan was just about to do that."

"I was?" Ryan asked blankly, still pondering Sandy's comment about 'your guests.' "I mean, yes, I was, Kirsten."

Just as his hand touched the knob, Seth grabbed Ryan's wrist.

"Wait," he urged in a theatrical whisper. "Think about how weird it's been around here today, dude. So who knows what's on the other side of that door?"

Ryan frowned. "Maybe . . . the guests?"

"Ah, but who are these mysterious 'guests'?" Seth persisted, eyes darting suspiciously. "Come on, man. Letting in a stranger is always a fatal mistake in horror movies. It's one of the top ten ways to get yourself dismembered. Don't go down the basement, don't take a shortcut through the cemetery, don't make-out in a car on a deserted street, and whatever you do, don't open the door. . ."

Kirsten sighed in exasperation as the bell rang again. "Seth Ezekiel! Enough. People are waiting . . . Ryan? Door, please?"

Obediently, Ryan pried Seth's fingers off his wrist and opened the door. Then he stood back, blinking in bewilderment.

"I'm so glad you could come on such short notice, kids. Just go on out to the patio," Kirsten called, sweeping past Seth and Ryan as Sandy came downstairs. "The boys will be with you in just a minute. Sandy and I need a word with them first."

"So . . . our guests," Ryan concluded, watching as Summer, Marissa, Alex and Luke filed in, chatting animatedly among themselves.

"Surprise, guys," Summer caroled. She flipped open her phone, snapping a picture of Seth as she strutted past. "This is so a Kodak moment. But open mouth, Cohen? I mean, it's pretty much always open, but still not your best look. Close, please."

Seth promptly popped his jaw shut, but his eyes remained wide and baffled as he waved a tentative hello, and when Luke reached a fist toward him he jumped back in alarm.

"Relax, Cohen," Luke laughed, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder. "I wasn't gonna hit you. Hey, Chino. How's it going?"

Ryan nodded a bemused greeting and Seth murmured, "Right. Yeah. Hello. Back at you, Luke." His hand sketched a clumsy return punch, catching Marissa's shoulder accidentally. She scowled, but Alex took her elbow and pulled her away.

Lindsay trailed behind the others. She paused to squeeze Ryan's hand, offering him a small, private smile. "I missed you this morning," she whispered, before disappearing through the French doors.

Seth's head swiveled from his parents to his friends and back again. "Oh . . . kay," he said dazedly, "let's see if I've got this. When you said 'we're having people over,' Dad, what you actually meant was 'we're' having people over." He gestured from Ryan to himself. "Which, yeah, is great and all, I guess, except really kind of bizarre, I mean, considering the whole grounding-and-no-entertainment-of-any-kind deal. So if somebody doesn't explain what's going on, like, right now, my head might explode. Seriously, Ryan, it might. I'd stand back if I were you."

Ryan retreated a step and Kirsten looked at him, eyebrows raised questioningly. "Hey, it's Seth," he explained. "You never know."

"All right. Sit down, Seth," Sandy ordered, steering his son into the living room. "You too, Ryan." He waited to continue until they were settled on the couch. "Before you boys got up this morning, Lindsay came to see us. She wanted to talk about what happened last night."

Ryan's eyes widened, alarmed. "She . . . what? Lindsay talked to you about that?"

Kirsten nodded, perching on the arm of Sandy's chair. "It was very sweet, actually. She wanted to apologize for using her key without our knowledge."

"Oh. Using her key," Ryan repeated, relieved. "Right. She was afraid you might be upset about that." He relaxed visibly until Sandy's next words jolted him back to attention.

"And she was very forthcoming about what went on while she was here . . . Ryan? You know that Kirsten and I are glad that you and Lindsay reconciled, but . . ." Sandy's voice rose meaningfully.

"Don't say it," Ryan pleaded, shrinking into the cushions, and trying to disappear. "I know. Sandy. Could we just not . . .?" His eyes darted to Kirsten in embarrassment before dropping to the floor.

"I'm sure you do know. So, yes, we'll save that issue for another time. In any case, Lindsay and Summer--"

Seth, who had been watching Ryan's discomfort with sympathetic amusement, suddenly jerked forward. "Whoa! And Summer?" he demanded. "Summer was here too? Wait, were the girls in the kitchen? Because, see, Ryan, now it's all starting to make sense. I mean, in a totally insane Summer-Roberts-sense kind of way . . ."

"Seth. Listen. Now." Sandy's tone silenced his son, who reluctantly zipped his lips and sat back.

"Apparently, last night the girls planned to get you two together with your friends at Caleb's party. They thought it might help . . . well, all of you really, to work out your problems and get past everything that's gone on. But then . . ."

"I ruined it," Ryan concluded.

Kirsten inclined her head regretfully. "Yes, Ryan, you did. But this isn't about what happened last night. Sandy and I want to talk about the decision we made this morning."

"Lindsay and Summer asked us to let them bring everybody here since you never got a chance to talk at Caleb's," Sandy reported. "They actually argued quite a persuasive case. Lindsay even organized notes on index cards."

Ryan lips twitched into a half-smile. "Lindsay would. She likes to be prepared. You know, so nothing goes wrong."

Sandy raised his eyebrows. "An excellent quality, wouldn't you say?" he asked pointedly.

Ryan flushed and chewed the inside of his cheek.

"Sandy!" Kirsten reproved. "Another time, remember?"

"Right," Sandy conceded. He looked intently from Ryan to Seth. "Lindsay claimed that it's not good for either one of you to be grounded, not when you're already so isolated. Evidently, she believes that you both need your friends right now."

Seth's mouth twisted. "I wasn't sure I still had any friends," he admitted. "I mean, except maybe Summer . . ." His voice trailed off uncertainly.

Ryan caught his breath, but he said nothing. His eyes were still locked on the ground, and Kirsten tapped his knee to get his attention. "Lindsay made a lot of sense, sweetie," she said with quiet emphasis. "You and Seth have both been spending too much time alone."

"Yeah, well, not by my choice," Seth mumbled. Ryan glanced over, a muscle throbbing in his set jaw, and he added hastily. "I mean . . . I'm not blaming you, Ryan. It's only that . . . hell, I just never wanted, you know, what happened to . . . happen."

Ryan took a deep breath. "Neither did I, Seth."

"Right. So, then, we have that in common."

There was an uncomfortable silence, during which Sandy and Kirsten exchanged anxious glances, and Ryan bit his lip. Finally Seth added, his voice deceptively casual. "You know, dude, I've really missed Seth-Ryan time. I mean, Captain Oats gives it his equine best, but what with the hooves and all, he just doesn't have the manual dexterity to play Halo II."

Ryan tilted his head, the shadow of a smirk flitting across his lips. "Neither do you, Seth."

"Hey!" Seth objected. His voice sounded indignant, but he couldn't hide the flash of his dimples. "I've been practicing, man. I could so take you now."

"You mean you could try."

Kirsten smiled with relief and amusement and Sandy beamed at both boys.

"The grudge match will have to be postponed until another time," he declared.

Seth groaned. "Dad, really, 'grudge' match?"

"No pun intended," Sandy assured him. "I just meant that you have company outside waiting for you."

Seth shimmied in his seat eagerly. "Right. Company. So, are Ryan and I, like, officially off punishment, Dad? Houston we have lift off?"

"Your mother and I are considering . . . considering . . . launching you both back into society," Sandy admitted. "But there are conditions, gentlemen."

"Right, conditions. Conditions are totally fair. Ryan and I agree to all the specified terms, don't we, bro? Where do we sign?"

Ryan frowned. "Seth," he cautioned. "We haven't heard the terms."

"Come on, Ryan. We've been through post-it note hell. How bad can these conditions be?"

Ryan looked at Kirsten and Sandy. Their eyes met his with warmth and compassion, and he swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. "Not bad at all," he admitted softly.

"So here's the deal, guys. Seth, you're still going to drive Ryan to rehab."

A shadow crossed Kirsten's face, but no one noticed.

Seth bobbed his head. "Check. I drive, Ryan rehabs. No problemo, Dad. What else?"

"No curfew extensions until further notice. Don't even bother asking. Both of you let us know where you are at all times. And neither one of you is to put anything into your body that you can't purchase legally with your own I.D. This is non-negotiable, gentlemen."

"Got it. No negotiations," Seth agreed.

"No drinking, no drugs, no coming home late," Ryan clarified. "Anything else?"

"Yes," Kirsten said somberly. Surprised and nervous, Seth stopped jiggling his legs and Ryan gripped the armrest of the couch. "Here's the hard one. And you've both heard this before. Seth, we need you to think before you speak and before you act. And when I say think, I don't mean about what you want. I mean consider how your behavior will impact other people. And Ryan . . . we want you to talk to us more about things that matter to you. Please don't make us try to read your mind all the time. Can you boys do that for us?"

Ryan kneaded his bicep and took a deep breath. "I can promise to try," he said slowly. "If that's good enough? Because I don't know about Seth. . ."

"Yeah," Seth murmured. "I don't know about me either. I mean, it's just, I've spent sixteen years perfecting the art of the babble, so to change it up now . . ."

"We don't expect you to become different people," Sandy assured them.

Kirsten smiled tenderly, "We don't want you to be different people. We love who you are, boys. Just . . . show us you've learned something. All right?"

Ryan nodded. Seth cocked a finger in his direction and declared, "Me too. What he said."

"Good." Sandy took Kirsten's hand and stood up. "I'll have my secretary draft the legal documents and fax them over for your signatures tomorrow."

"Legal? Signatures?" Seth sputtered, and then shook his head. "Right. I forgot. Dad's funny today, Ryan. Humor him. Laugh."

"Humor me, Ryan. Don't listen to Seth. Just get out of here, both of you, before we change our minds." Sandy handed Ryan his crutch. "Your guests and the grill await."

Seth didn't even wait until the French doors closed behind him before demanding, "Okay, Summer, 'fess up. The post-it notes in the kitchen this morning? Your idea, right?"

Summer lay back in a lounge chair, kicking off her sandals and crossing her ankles primly. "Absolutely not," she claimed. "That was all Lindsay."

"What post-it notes?" Alex asked at the same time that Ryan, who had clasped Lindsay's hand, spun her around in surprise.

"You? You did that to us?"

"Not . . . really," Lindsay answered, ducking her head. "Well, I guess I did in a way. But Summer inspired the idea. She made so many crumbs eating a bagel with her eyes closed--"

"What? I was tired. And hungry," Summer explained when the others stared at her. "It's just not all that easy to eat and sleep at the same time."

"Anyway, Kirsten was going to clean up," Lindsay continued, "but I said we hadn't come over to make work for her, and maybe she should just leave a note for you guys to take care of it after you had breakfast . . . You're not mad, are you, Ryan?"

She walked her fingers up his arm and across his chest, biting her lip appealingly. Ryan dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Nah. Not mad. But Lindsay," he reminded her with a slight frown, "there was more than one note."

Lindsay peeked up. Her voice was muffled, since her mouth was pressed against Ryan's throat. "Sandy thought it would be funny to leave a few of them."

Seth sighed. "Yeah, Dad's all about the funny today. But . . . a few?" He frowned suspiciously and ticked off his fingers, counting. "Okay, like three or four could be considered a few, but there were, well, I'm not sure exactly, but definitely more than a few notes. And there was a lot, lot, lot of mess."

Summer beamed at him. "There was, wasn't there?" she agreed smugly. "Lindsay and I made the mess—well, mostly me. I kind of got carried away once we got started. But hey, Cohen, the way your room has looked lately, I totally thought you felt at home surrounded by filth."

Affronted, Seth looked to Ryan for back-up, but Ryan just shrugged. "She has a point, Seth."

"It's not filth," Seth grumbled. "It's creative chaos. And anyway, I cleaned, Summer. A little anyway. You noticed last night--" He stopped abruptly, glancing around. "Wait. Is Zach here? I mean, if you didn't tell him that you visited me last night . . ."

"Zach couldn't make it," Summer reported. "He had to do, I don't know, something with his family." She shuddered slightly. "What a boring way to spend a Sunday. Or an any day, really. It's much more fun here."

Seth's face brightened. "So . . . you could have been spending the day with Zach but you chose me instead?" Summer raised a cautioning eyebrow and he clarified, "I mean, here. Or, yeah, me, but really, me kind of in the collective sense. A we-me, so to speak. You know, as in Seth plus Ryan plus everyone else, me."

"Don't make me sorry I came, Cohen," Summer warned, glaring at him.

"Make you sorry?" Seth countered. "Hey, I'm expecting an apology from you, Summer. With all that unnecessary work you created, I'm holding you personally responsible for my blisters. All three of them."

Summer made a face of mock sympathy. "Really? You have blisters?" she cooed. "Aw, poor Cohen. I'm surprised you even knew what they were."

"Whoa, guys," Luke interjected, stepping between them before Seth could launch his comeback. "If I have to sit through an insult marathon, I need nourishment first. Isn't there supposed to be food here? Some of us are hungry. Thirsty too . . . Chino, I would have brought a six-pack, but I thought the Cohens might not appreciate it."

"Yeah, kinda think not. But food coming up," Ryan replied. "Seth, you're going to fire up the grill, right?" He tossed over the spatula, shaking his head sadly when it bounced off Seth's chest and fell to the patio floor. "Maybe one of these days, Seth . . ."

"Maybe one of these days, Ryan, you'll give me a heads-up before you throw something at me."

"Yeah," Alex drawled. "Like that will help."

Ryan grinned. "There's a baseball in the poolhouse, Alex. You and Luke could give Seth pointers while I get the food." His voice dropped an octave and he whispered to Lindsay. "Want to help me out in the kitchen?"

"I would love to . . . help you. Anywhere," Lindsay murmured, and then blushed when she realized the others were listening. "Sorry. We'll just be a minute or . . . well, a few minutes, everybody."

She and Ryan disappeared through the French doors, ignoring Seth's plaintive cries of "Wait! Ryan! Tell them you were kidding about the baseball, man . . .You know, Luke, I'm the one on grill duty so you really should try not to, like, hit me in the head or anything . . ."

Inside the kitchen, Ryan backed Lindsay against the counter while she hooked her fingers into his belt loops, pulling until their bodies were pressed together. She lifted her face in invitation and Ryan leaned down, his tongue tracing her lips, but as her mouth opened, he pulled away. "Lindsay?" he asked, his voice on the edge of a growl. "You told Sandy and Kirsten what we did last night?"

Lindsay blinked in alarmed disappointment. "What?" she stammered, shaking her head. "Ryan, no . . . Well, that is, I guess, yes. But not **_what _**we did, really. Just sort of . . . **_that_** we did. But I'm sorry. I mean . . . if you're upset. Are you upset?"

"Upset," Ryan repeated a little hoarsely. "No, I don't think that's what I'm feeling right now."

Lindsay sighed in relief. "Good, because, you know, I didn't plan. . . I mean, I just talked to them so that we . . . Ryan, it's okay, isn't it? That I brought everyone over? Because I just thought . . ."

"It was a good thought," Ryan said softly, his breath ruffling her hair.

"You're sure? Because I know you and Seth . . . and well, all the tension . . . and things people said . . . and . . . God, Ryan! Why can't I ever form a coherent sentence when I'm with you?

"Maybe because there are better things for your mouth to be doing?" Ryan suggested. He nipped her bottom lip playfully, his hand moving under her shirt, and Lindsay moaned, dissolving against him.

"Oh yes," she agreed happily. "There really are."

"So, Phil?" Caleb demanded. "What do you think?"

Phil Styles, dressed in his golfing clothes, stared at Caleb in doubtful confusion. "It's doable, of course, Cal. But when Kirsten proposed this project, you said it wasn't profitable enough for the Newport Group to pursue."

Caleb spun the miniature globe on his desk thoughtfully. "There are all kinds of ways to make a profit," he observed. "This development probably won't work to our financial advantage, but trust me, there are still things to be gained."

"Then, fine, I'll draw up the necessary papers," Phil promised. "Now, if you don't need anything else . . .?"

Caleb waved him away. "You're done."

Phil nodded, shuffled his files together and left, passing Julie as she entered the office. She raised her eyebrows curiously and looped her arms around Caleb's neck from behind.

"Darling?" she asked, resting her chin on his shoulder. "You called Phil after all? But when I left. . ."

"You told me to think outside the box, Juju. And that," Caleb declared with satisfaction, "is exactly what I'm doing."

Kirsten found herself humming as she went to refill her glass of ice tea. Somehow, emotionally, she'd spun back in time, enjoying the same sense of drowsy content that she'd felt after breakfast yesterday, before Ryan's letter from UCLA arrived, before the various disasters at the Newport Group re-launch party.

Outside, she could see the boys savoring the last few minutes with their friends. Seth was sitting on the side of the pool, feet dangling in the water, arms waving, chatting with Alex over the head of an amused Summer. Behind them, Luke and Marissa were clustered around Ryan, who was stretched out on a lounge chair. He lay slightly on his side, with Lindsay nestled snugly next to him. Kirsten could see that Ryan wasn't actively participating in the conversation. His head was resting on Lindsay's shoulder and his eyes were closed, but he was smiling, even laughing occasionally, at whatever Luke was saying.

It all looked so right.

Kirsten did feel a brief pang that the gathering had splintered slightly into a Seth group and a Ryan group. She would rather have seen everyone together, but she knew that there was still some awkwardness between the boys, a small gulf peppered with prickly and forbidding unfinished business that they had not yet resolved.

At least, Kirsten reminded herself, they had made a solid start. Seth and Ryan were talking. They were, however sporadically and carefully, joking. They were standing up for each other. They were getting into trouble together.

As a parent, Kirsten knew that she shouldn't be happy about that last fact. But she was.

It was so much better than seeing them get into trouble apart.

Kirsten stole a last glance at the boys and dropped a wedge of lemon into her ice tea, then poured a second, over-sugared glass for Sandy. At the last minute, feeling generous, she also cut a large wedge of shortcake, a consolation prize for her husband, who was in the family room still struggling with the last four crossword clues. Kirsten had already figured out the missing words, but she intended to wait a while before she filled in the blanks.

Watching Sandy suffer would make her ultimate gloating that much sweeter.

And her gloating might inspire Sandy to seek revenge. That could be sweet too.

Smiling to herself, Kirsten started back to the family room just as the doorbell rang. She sighed, her good mood suddenly in jeopardy. Everyone she wanted to see was already at her house. She couldn't imagine any visitor she would welcome now.

Kirsten's initial reaction when she opened the door to a work-shirt clad stranger was relief. At least it wasn't her father. All day she had half-expected Caleb to appear, righteous and irate, armed with reports about how badly the boys had behaved at his party, his house. She figured she'd have to face that confrontation sometime, but Kirsten really didn't want it to spoil her Sunday.

The man at the door nodded at her, a grin creasing his sunburned cheeks.

"Mrs. Cohen?"

"Yes," Kirsten answered, peering at the name, Russ, embroidered in an oval on his pocket. "May I help you?"

Then her gaze slid past the man to the driveway, and Kirsten froze. Dimly, as if from a distance, she heard Russ saying something about sorry it had taken so long and all damage repaired and good as new and probably be glad to get rid of the loaner. When the man stretched out his hand, car keys dangling from his fingers, Kirsten recoiled. Her head was shaking, and she scarcely realized that she had dropped the tray she was holding, splattering her feet with tea and crumbs and bits of broken glass.

"Ma'am? Mrs. Cohen? Is something wrong" Russ asked in alarm. "Jeez, let me help you with that."

He swabbed ineffectually at the puddle with a handkerchief and began to pick up the largest shards of glass, but Kirsten didn't move.

"Sandy . . ." she whispered. Then she found her voice and cried frantically, "Sandy!"

"Honey . . . what?" Sandy ran from the family room, catching Kirsten from behind as she retreated from the foyer. She was trembling, and Sandy stared without comprehension at the mess on the floor, then raised his eyes to meet the apprehensive ones of the man standing by the door.

"Russ? What happened here?"

"So help me, Sandy, I don't know," Russ said helplessly. "I just brought the Rover back. You said you wanted it for tomorrow morning, but I finished too late to deliver it yesterday, and you said you'd be home today, so I thought, even though it's Sunday . . . Anyway, I don't know. I must have startled your wife somehow. Mrs. Cohen, I'm really sorry. If you'll tell me where I can find a broom, I'll be glad to clean this up."

Sandy tightened his arm around Kirsten. "Thanks, Russ, but I'll take care of it. Look, the keys for the loaner are on the counter in the kitchen. Could you just get them and leave ours? Do I have to sign anything?"

"Just this." Russ fished a pen out of his pocket and Sandy scrawled a signature on the clipboard he held. "You sure everything's all right? I can't do anything for you?"

"Everything's fine," Sandy claimed. "Thanks again. Especially for taking the time to deliver the car today. The kitchen's that way."

"No problem. I'll just exchange the keys and get out of your way." Russ bobbed his head nervously and backed out of the room.

Sandy led Kirsten to the stairs and sat down with her on the bottom step.

"Okay, sweetheart. It's all right," he crooned. "I'm sorry. I forgot to tell you that I had arranged to have the Rover delivered this weekend. But the boys will need it tomorrow when Seth takes Ryan to rehab."

Kirsten stared at him incredulously. Her lips moved slightly, but she didn't say anything.

"I figured you . . . well, we all would feel better if Seth didn't have to drive the loaner," Sandy explained, choosing his words carefully. "It really doesn't have enough legroom for Ryan to ride comfortably, and besides, Seth isn't familiar with it. You remember how he was when he learned to drive the Rover. Once he knows how a vehicle operates Seth does great, but his first time behind the wheel . . ." Sandy smiled encouragement and rubbed Kirsten's back, his hand moving in soothing circles. "Sweetheart, I know you were startled when the Rover just turned up again. You didn't expect it, and seeing it probably made you flash back to . . ."

"The accident?" Kirsten asked stonily.

"Yes," Sandy conceded. "The accident. But that's behind us, honey. You just need to relax, all right?"

Kirsten tensed and shifted away from Sandy's touch.

"Don't tell me to relax. I hate that car," she hissed fiercely. "I didn't want it back. You knew that. I told you I never wanted it back."

"Kirsten, you said that while Ryan was still in the hospital. You were upset . . ."

"So you just chose to ignore my feelings? Make decisions for me, as if I'm some kind of child who can't think for herself?" Kirsten wrenched herself to her feet so abruptly that she stumbled and had to grab the newel post. "Damn you, Sandy."

He stared at her, shocked, his brow furrowed. "Kirsten? Sweetheart? You're not making sense," he argued quietly. "Come here. Just . . . sit down, all right?" Sandy moved over to give Kirsten more room. She looked at him for a long moment, her lips crimping, and then dropped back down, as if she couldn't support her own weight anymore.

"Honey, you knew I was having the car repaired. That's why we had the loaner, to use until we got our own car back."

Sandy kept his tone reasonable, but Kirsten flushed with anger anyway. "My car, Sandy. Mine. So the decision about what to do with it should have been mine too."

"All right, Kirsten, yes, your car. But you knew I was having it repaired," Sandy repeated, confused. "After all, it wasn't damaged that much--"

"I don't care how much it was damaged!" Kirsten cried. "I care how much damage it did. And fine, Sandy, you probably told me what you were doing. I don't remember, all right?" Her voice caught in her throat. "But you had no right . . . Didn't you care at all about how I'd react? Do my feelings mean that little to you?"

Seth and Ryan, heading to their rooms from the kitchen, froze at the sound of Kirsten's words. The relaxed smiles left over from their party disappeared instantly.

"Of course your feelings matter," Sandy protested. "Kirsten, honey--" He broke off at the sight of the boys and smiled wanly. "Hey. Party over, guys?"

"Um . . . yeah, right on time, as ordered," Seth answered. "Everybody's gone home. And, well, yeah, this was great today . . ." His voice drifted off, bewildered, and he shot a troubled look at Ryan, mouthed a silent "Tag in."

Ryan nodded, his gaze locked on Kirsten, whose face was turned to the wall, avoiding them. "We just wanted to say . . . thanks. For letting everybody come over. And to tell you that we'll be glad to clean up . . . Sandy? Is everything okay?"

"Of course," Sandy claimed. "Kirsten and I just have to talk about a few things . . . Tell you what, guys. I'll handle the clean up. Why don't you two head for your rooms? Maybe make up for that sleep I didn't let you have this morning?"

"Dad, hey, it's only seven-thirty," Seth began, but he swallowed the rest of his words when Sandy's eyes flashed dangerously. "Right. Sleep. Sounds good." He gave an extravagant yawn. "All of a sudden I'm really exhausted. You, Ryan?"

"Yeah," Ryan agreed, his voice low and troubled. "Me too."

"So then. Okay. Yeah. 'Night, everybody." Seth started to sidle between his parents, but Kirsten suddenly got to her feet.

"We don't have anything to talk about, Sandy," she announced. Her voice had no inflection at all. "And you don't have to go to bed yet, boys. But I think that I will. And I'll be using the upstairs guestroom tonight."

Ryan checked his clock for the third time before deciding that he might as well just get up even though it wasn't even seven a.m. Leaving his brace on the dresser, he started to limp out to the kitchen, but at the last minute he grabbed his crutch, just in case he met Kirsten or Sandy.

The aroma of coffee told him that somebody else was already awake.

"Hey, kid. A little early for you to be up on the first day of spring break, isn't it?" Sandy asked as Ryan slipped onto a stool.

Ryan nodded. "Couldn't sleep. Coffee?" He looked hopefully at the pot, and Sandy poured a second mug, handing it to him. Ryan sipped it, watching with concern as Sandy opened cabinet doors, peered inside, and then closed them again.

"Sandy? Are you . . . I mean, can I help you with something?"

"We gave Rosa the week off, and I was just thinking about making some breakfast, only I can't seem to find the skillet," Sandy explained. He leaned back against the counter and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. "Kirsten really didn't eat any dinner last night . . ."

"The drawer under the broiler. That's where the skillet is, I mean. Did Kirsten . . .?" Ryan's voice trailed off, and he stared into the murky contents of his coffee cup. "Never mind. I mean, I know it's not my business."

Sandy sighed wearily. "She hasn't come out of the guestroom, Ryan. I knocked, but she said that she wants to be left alone."

Ryan gestured at the food sitting on the sideboard. "So you thought . . .?"

"I thought I'd try to lure her out with bacon," Sandy admitted ruefully. "It's a cheaper bribe than jewelry, and we can always eat it if she turns it down, right? Can't do that with a bracelet."

Ryan attempted a smile, but it disappeared before it fully formed. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "This . . . Kirsten being so upset . . . it's pretty much my fault. I mean she didn't cause the accident. I did. And now it's making her mad at you . . . "

"Hey!" Sandy's resolute tone forced Ryan's reluctant gaze to meet his. "Don't do this, kid. No apologies. This one is on me. I should have listened to Kirsten when she said she didn't want the car repaired. Hell, who cares what she drives . . ."

"If she drives," Ryan muttered.

"What?"

Ryan dropped his gaze, embarrassed. "She . . . well, she hasn't driven, has she? Since everything happened? And . . . it's like she barely wants to leave the house. Or have any of us leave . . ." He shrugged helplessly. "I just wish there was something I could do."

Sandy leaned down to look at him directly. "Ryan, this is not your problem," he insisted, "and it's not your responsibility, either." Then he smiled, giving Ryan's shoulder a little shake. "But hey, if you really want to help out, you could always give me a hand with the bacon."

Ryan nodded, then bit his lip, hiding his face behind his coffee cup.

There had to be something more he could do.


	22. Chapter 20

I own nothing more than I did last time, which is to say, nothing at all.

Thanks to all of you who read and respond. I appreciate it.

**Collision Course Chapter 20**

Ryan hesitated outside the upstairs guestroom door, afraid that Kirsten wouldn't answer his knock, but equally afraid that she would.

This argument wasn't his business, he reminded himself. It was between Kirsten and Sandy and he should leave it to Kirsten and Sandy except . . . except that it did concern him too.

Ryan himself had no memory of the moment of the accident. Even if he did, he doubted that it would bother him much, because that impact hadn't shattered him. It had only hurt his body, and he'd experienced worse pain before. There were so many other, deeper ways to suffer—the way he still did, sometimes, when he allowed himself to remember too much, or let his past push its way into the present.

Ryan didn't think Kirsten really had a memory of the accident either, because for her it wasn't over. On some level, she was still living it, much more a casualty of the crash than Ryan. He knew there was no way he could erase the images, but he felt like he had to make them less graphic, lessen their power over her.

At least he had to try.

He knocked.

"Go away, Sandy," Kirsten's voice snapped promptly, harshly.

"Kirsten? It's me. Ryan."

The door was wrenched open so suddenly that Ryan thought Kirsten must have been leaning on the other side.

"What are you doing upstairs, Ryan?"

He shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I . . . uh . . ." he began, startled by the accusation in her voice.

"You're not supposed to be climbing stairs. You know that. Do you want to hurt yourself again? Is that what you want, Ryan?" Kirsten flung the words at him, cold and furious.

He hadn't known how she'd react to his visit, but Ryan had never expected this kind of raw anger. Not directed at him.

Kirsten had always been so polite, so careful of his feelings, even when he'd first come to Newport and it was clear that she wanted him gone, even when she blamed him for Seth getting drunk and beat up at Holly's party after the fashion show, even when he'd been arrested for burning down her model home.

He didn't quite know this Kirsten and she scared him a little.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said softly, retreating. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'll just go."

"Stop," Kirsten ordered.

Ryan looked at her over his shoulder, unsure exactly what she meant.

Kirsten opened the bedroom door wider and waved him inside. "You're here now," she explained, her voice suddenly thin and crumpled as used tissue paper. "You might as well rest for a few minutes before you go back downstairs."

"But if you don't want to talk . . ."

"Just come in, Ryan," Kirsten sighed wearily.

Ryan nodded. She pointed him to an armchair and he sat uneasily, gripping the top of his crutch, trying vainly to remember what he had planned to say. His gaze slid off Kirsten's tired face and fixed on the floor.

Silence coiled itself around the room. In it, Kirsten heard sharp, reproachful echoes of her outburst at the door.

"Ryan," she sighed finally and waited. His eyes flickered up, wary. "I didn't mean to yell at you. Forgive me, please. I just . . . it's very important that you follow your doctor's orders, that's all."

Ryan took a deep breath, relieved. "No, I mean, I know. It's all right. You don't need to apologize." His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. He cleared his throat before continuing, chancing a wistful half-smile. "It's kind of . . . nice, actually. That you care enough to worry and . . . get mad."

Kirsten's stoic expression dissolved. "Oh, sweetie," she murmured. "I'm not mad at you, really. It's just . . . never mind. I shouldn't have taken out my anger on you, that's all."

Even though he didn't want to upset her again, Ryan decided to take the risk. "But Kirsten, you shouldn't be mad at Sandy either," he urged. "The Rover. . . He had it repaired because . . . well, it's just a car. It's nothing. He didn't do it to hurt you. Sandy would never do anything to hurt you. Not on purpose."

Kirsten twisted her rings, her mouth crimping. "I never wanted to see that car again. Sandy knew that, but apparently he didn't care."

Ryan leaned forward. "No, see, Kirsten, he does care. A lot," he insisted earnestly. "It's just . . . You know, sometimes you do things automatically. Something gets broken, you fix it. I mean, Sandy does that, doesn't he? He fixes things." Very softly, Ryan added to himself, "People too." He turned back to Kirsten, his expression intense and beseeching. "I think Sandy figured . . . the Rover wasn't totaled. So, he could get it fixed, and it would be a way of . . . maybe making things more like they were before. If that makes any sense."

Kirsten closed her eyes for a long moment. "I suppose it does, Ryan. In a way," she conceded. "But it doesn't matter. Don't you understand? I can't stand looking at that car." She shuddered, whispering, "It reminds me too much of the accident."

"Yeah, but Kirsten," Ryan argued quietly, "you look at me. And Seth."

She shook her head, bewildered.

"I just mean . . . I was there. And so was Seth. So if we don't remind you . . . "

Kirsten gave a wan, desolate smile. She hitched the chair she was sitting in closer and covered Ryan's hand with her own. "Sweetie, it's not the same thing at all. I can't expect you to understand. You're not a parent. You've never had to see a child of yours hurt . . . and to know that you did it . . ."

Ryan caught his breath and mentally tucked away the phrase "a child of yours" next to Seth's "different son" comment. Later . . . later he'd take them out and examine them. But now all he wanted to do was reach Kirsten and pull her out of her anguished guilt.

Except that suddenly he felt dragged down with her.

"I know I'm not a parent. But I almost was," Ryan recalled heavily. His voice was so low that Kirsten had to strain to hear it. "And my baby died, Kirsten. I mean, I know he hadn't even been born yet, but still . . . I think maybe I understand a little. Because I couldn't do anything to save him. I never even got the chance."

Kirsten froze for a moment, stunned by Ryan's unexpected confession. His eyes went dark and the pain in them broke her heart. She picked up his hand, holding it between both of hers.

"Oh, Ryan," she breathed. "I didn't know you felt this way, sweetie. You never talk about losing the baby."

He shrugged, his gaze darting up and then back down. "I don't know how," he said simply.

"It's hard," Kirsten conceded. "I understand that. But, Ryan, it doesn't do any good to just bury your feelings . . ."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I don't. I mean . . . Well, I wanted to talk to Theresa, but I couldn't figure out what to say." His mouth curved into a self-deprecating half-smile. "I'm not so good with words, you know? But I did write to her. Sometimes it's just . . . easier on paper." Ryan's voice trailed off until it was scarcely audible. "She hasn't written back though."

Kirsten stroked his hand, warming it. "It probably still hurts too much," she suggested.

Ryan ducked his head. "Or . . . maybe she blames me. For leaving."

"Oh no, Ryan. No, I'm sure she doesn't. Didn't you say that Theresa told you not to come back to Chino?" Ryan nodded, keeping his head down, and Kirsten put a finger under his chin to force him to look at her. "She wanted you back here where you belong, sweetie. And someday, I'm sure she'll be ready to talk to you. But meanwhile Ryan, I'm here, and so is Sandy . . . and so is Seth. I promise you, any of us will listen. We all will, any time."

Ryan swallowed hard, blinked as if he was just waking up. Kirsten had the sense that he rationed himself, allowed only brief moments when he would acknowledge the baby, and the grief, and the relief, and the guilt, even to himself.

They weren't emotions that he was willing to share.

The fact that he'd mentioned the baby at all, that he'd confided in her—it was a kind of gift, and a plea.

When she looked at Ryan again, Kirsten could see that he had put his past away; he was resolutely, deliberately, in the present.

"Thanks. But . . . I didn't mean to make this about me, Kirsten," he said, shifting uncomfortably and rubbing the heel of his hand into his thigh. "It's just . . . we're all really worried about you. Can you come downstairs? Please? Just talk to Sandy, all right?" He gave a tentative smile, his eyes appealing. "He's making breakfast for you right now. Bacon."

Kirsten laughed ruefully. "Why is it that the men in this family always think they can win me over with bacon?"

"Maybe . . . because we can?"

"All right, smartass." Kirsten kissed Ryan lightly on the cheek to take the sting out of the word. "You win. I'll come down and eat bacon and talk to Sandy. But you, young man . . . you don't come up these stairs again until you've got official permission from the doctor. Deal?"

Ryan shook her hand solemnly. "Deal."

"Mmm. A home-cooked breakfast for me, Dad? You shouldn't have." Seth yawned, sniffing hopefully as he shuffled into the kitchen.

Sandy looked over his shoulder from the skillet of scrambled eggs he was stirring. "And I didn't," he declared. "You and Ryan can have cereal this morning . . . Seth, I mean it. Do not touch that platter. There's more than one use for a spatula, you know." He waved the utensil in warning.

"Yeah? Well, hey, at least I know one. That puts me ahead of Mom anyway. And speaking of The Kirsten, is she . . .?" Seth looked around, frowning.

Sandy exhaled a breath that ruffled his unruly hair. "Still upset with me? Yep."

"And so the breakfast," Seth concluded.

"And so the breakfast," Sandy agreed. "Whatever works, son. Care to help? Ryan was going to, but then he said he had something to do."

"Yeah, help," Seth hedged, pulling out a box of cereal. "I so would, Dad, because you know I'm all about the work these days, and I even have the blisters to prove it, but you look like you've got everything under control."

Sandy raised his eyebrows. "Everything except my son, apparently. Seth, put the cereal away. You can eat later. Cut the lemon for your Mom's water, would you? Wedges, not slices. And get rid of the seeds."

"Making breakfast instead of surfing. Lemon in the water. Wedges, not slices. Get rid of the seeds. You're in major apology mode here, aren't you, Dad?"

"Yes," Sandy admitted. "I am. I was thoughtless, and I hurt your mother, so it's up to me to make it right. Stage one, breakfast. Stage two . . . well . . ." He wagged his eyebrows meaningfully and Seth groaned.

"Okay, and now? A little nauseous here. Thanks a lot, Dad."

Sandy flipped the eggs over and stirred them, asking with studied casualness, "So, how about you, son? How are you feeling after yesterday's little surprise party? Besides, nauseous, I mean. Things getting back to normal? . . . Now, bear in mind, I know that 'normal' is a relative term in this family."

Seth picked up a wedge of lemon and sucked it, his mouth puckering comically. "Well, as long as you're aware of that, then, yeah," he replied. "Yesterday was good. Verging on great, with some moments approaching awesome, even. It really, I don't know, felt like . . . well, a lot like things used to feel. You know. Before."

"Glad to hear it," Sandy observed. He dished out the eggs, circling the plate with strips of bacon as he added casually, "So then, you and Ryan will be okay today?"

"Okay?"

"In the car," Sandy clarified.

Seth frowned. "It's just a thirty-minute drive, Dad. We'll be fine. What are you doing, channeling Mom this morning?"

"I don't mean the drive," Sandy explained. "I mean the fact that it will just be the two of you. Nobody else around to--"

"Be a buffer?" Seth supplied, tossing the lemon seeds in the garbage. "Run interference? Referee?" His brow furrowed and for a moment he looked exactly like his father. "Dad, has Ryan said something to you? Like, oh, I don't know, maybe 'I haven't really forgiven Seth, and I never will, but I'll pretend that I did if it will make you guys happy'?" 'Cause see, from where I sit, I kind of was thinking we're friends again. You know, at least enough to ride in a car together."

"No, Seth," Sandy assured him, "Ryan hasn't said anything like that. And for the record, I don't believe he's capable of pretending something he doesn't feel. You are friends, I know that, but I also think you two have issues you've been avoiding. Things you really should settle. And when you're driving him to rehab, well . . ."

"It's mobile therapy time, huh? Peer mediation on the move," Seth concluded. He sucked viciously on another lemon wedge. "Sure you don't want Dr. Phil riding in the back seat?"

Sandy pulled the few remaining pieces of lemon away from his son and dropped them into a carafe of ice water. "It's a chance for you two to talk," he said simply. "And by talk, I don't mean you prattling on about music or comic books or video games or, number one on the Seth Cohen hit parade, Summer. I mean, really talk to each other."

Seth shrugged. "Yeah. Well. Don't you think you should be having this conversation with Ryan? He's the one who has trouble producing words."

"And you're the one who hides behind them," Sandy countered. He kneaded Seth's shoulder affectionately. "Son, you need to work things out with Ryan so something like this never happens again. Even if he wants to avoid the subject, I'm counting on you to step up this time."

"Okay, fine," Seth muttered, a little reluctantly. "I'll step. Step, drive, talk. It's a good thing I'm a master at multitasking." He stopped suddenly, looking beyond his father. Sandy started to lift the breakfast tray off the table, but Seth held on to it. "Um . . . Dad?"

"What? . . . Seth would you please let go? I want to take your mother her breakfast before it gets cold."

"Right," Seth agreed. "Only that? Apparently not so necessary, Dad. Mohammad, meet mountain." He turned his father around to face the doorway. Kirsten stood there, not quite smiling, but not angry either, with Ryan one pace behind.

"You came down," Sandy observed, his face confused, delighted, and a little apprehensive.

Kirsten nodded. "I came down. But," she warned, "I was promised bacon. If there isn't any, I'm going right back upstairs."

Sandy crossed to her in two strides and pulled her into his arms. "I am so, so sorry, sweetheart," he murmured.

Kirsten rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. "I know," she whispered. "Me too."

"So we're okay?"

Kirsten nodded, rubbing her cheek against Sandy's neck. "We're okay." Then she looked up at him, her eyes glinting mischievously. "But Sandy," she added, "I meant what I said. I'll go back upstairs . . ."

"No need," Sandy grinned, kissing her forehead. "There's bacon."

-------------------------------------------------------------

Kirsten watched, eyes anxious and body rigid, as Seth and Ryan settled into the repaired Rover. It still hurt her to look at it, but she'd allowed herself to listen as Sandy recited a list of its assets: comfort, smooth ride, good engine, the crucial fact that the boys were used to driving it. Finally, she'd acquiesced.

They would keep the Rover. Kirsten still hoped never to sit inside it again, but Seth and Ryan would use it since they had to have some vehicle when they went any distance.

But for this, for Ryan's rehab . . . why, Kirsten wondered, did they have to leave the house at all?

Mentally, she replayed the conversation she'd had with Sandy before he left the house.

"We could hire a physical therapist to come here," Kirsten had suggested. "And we could rent any equipment he might need. We already have a pool, Sandy. There's no need for the boys to drive thirty miles to a some clinic just so Ryan can do his exercises."

"Kirsten, we've discussed this. Ryan needs to get out of the house," Sandy declared. "And he and Seth need to spend time together and talk, someplace neutral."

"How can it be neutral if they're constantly reminded of the accident?" Kirsten protested. She drummed her fingers on her thighs and looked at Sandy pleadingly. "It's not a good idea, sweetheart. It's not."

Sandy moved close to Kirsten and put his hands over hers, stilling them. "Honey," he said gently, "the accident was never an issue between Seth and Ryan. You know that. It's only an issue with you. You're the one who hasn't gotten past it."

Kirsten shuddered involuntarily and Sandy stood, pulling her up into his arms. "I can't help it," she moaned. "You weren't there. You have no idea how terrible it was Sandy."

"I can imagine . . ."

"That's not the same! And now to put the boys in that car . . . It's bad enough when we're with them, but to send them out on the road alone . . ."

"Kirsten, Seth is a good driver."

"I was too, and it didn't make any difference, did it?"

Sandy's eyes flickered at Kirsten's use of the past tense, but he let it slide. "You cannot keep the boys in this house forever, honey." He rubbed her shoulders, trying to massage away some of the tension there, and teased, "They've got to get out sometime if we ever want grandchildren."

"Don't patronize me, Sandy!" Kirsten protested, pulling away. "There is nothing wrong with wanting your children to be safe."

Sandy sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead. "Of course there's not," he agreed carefully. "And that's why we have seat belts and airbags and emergency kits and cell phones. The boys are smart and they're careful, honey. You have to trust them. And you have to let them go."

Eventually, unwillingly, Kirsten had agreed, but nothing Sandy said allayed her fears entirely even though, on some level, she knew they were irrational. Now, with Seth and Ryan ready to leave, she felt panic closing her throat, blocking her breathing.

Seth pulled out the ignition key and Kirsten searched frantically for something to stall him.

"You have the directions, Seth?" she asked.

"Directions?" Seth parroted. "Yeah, um, that would be drive until I come to a fork in the road, get out, spin around in circles, and continue whichever way I wind up facing, right?"

Ryan poked him in the side. "Seth," he warned.

"Okay, okay. Directions, right here," Seth said, waving a sheet out the window at his mother. "And by the way, Ryan. Ow."

Kirsten crossed her arms around herself defensively. "Maybe I should come with you," she suggested. She sounded terrified but determined.

Ryan saw her go ashen as she reached for the door handle. "Kirsten, really, you don't have to come," he assured her. "We'll be fine, I promise. Seth will keep both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road. We won't even play music."

"Yeah, right, I'll be . . . Whoa. We won't play music? Ryan, dude, amigo, there's no need for hyperbole here--"

"We won't play music," Ryan repeated. "We won't eat in the car, we won't drink. We'll just drive, Kirsten. No distractions."

Kirsten wavered, wanting equally to be in the car with them and to be as far away from it as possible. "You both have your cell phones?"

Ryan nodded.

"We have them, but I swear we won't use them. Because that? Would be a distraction," Seth said with mock solemnity. He caught Ryan's sideways glare and moved away in case he was due for another Atwood jab. "I mean," he amended, "if for some reason we need to call anybody, we'll pull off the road and come to a complete stop with the parking brake and warning lights on and everything. Ryan and I will be the Drive Safe Poster Children, Mom.

"Seth, if you're not going to take this seriously--"

"He will, Kirsten. Won't you, Seth?" Ryan leaned over, growling sotto voce, "Or you'll need rehab too by the time we get to the clinic."

"Mom!" Seth cried dramatically. "Ryan is threatening me! Are you going to let him get away with that?"

Kirsten refused to smile. "Seth, you're not funny. And I need to know that you're not going to fool around on the road. You need to concentrate when you're driving. You have to focus every minute."

"He's just teasing, Kirsten. Seth, stop it, okay?" Ryan waited while Seth rolled his eyes and finally set his lips in a straight, sober line. Then he turned his attention back to Kirsten. "We'll be fine, honest. But you have to stop worrying, Kirsten. What happened before . . . it was an accident. It's not going to happen again."

Kirsten bit her lip, not convinced. "I know," she conceded reluctantly. "I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous and overprotective . . ."

Seth looped his arm out the window and pulled her into an impromptu hug. "Yeah, you really are, Mom. But it's okay. We love you too. And we'll be careful. But we've really got to go now."

Kirsten nodded and kissed Seth quickly on the cheek. She darted to the other side of the car, leaned in and did the same to Ryan, then stepped back, hugging herself hard as the Rover left the driveway. "Be safe! I love you both," she called, watching intently until the car disappeared.

She wished Sandy were home.

Even Rosa.

Anybody.

It was going to be a long three hours until the boys returned.

The moment he turned the car onto the main road, Seth reached for the CD button. Ryan pushed his hand away.

"What?" Seth protested. "You weren't serious, dude? No music? Really?"

"We promised your mom."

Seth's expression settled into a near-sulk. "Actually, I think that would be, you promised, Ryan. I, on the other hand, said nothing."

"Silence means assent, Seth."

"No, it doesn't . . . It does? Shit. No wonder I talk all the time. Otherwise I wind up agreeing to ridunkulous stuff like no music," Seth mumbled. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "No music. But the car is a perfect venue for music, Ryan. Like, its natural habitat or something. Seriously, dude, I read a study somewhere that says drivers who listen to music are four times more alert than drivers who don't."

"No you didn't."

"Okay, I didn't," Seth admitted. "But I could have. I'm sure there's a study like that out there, probably written by people with fifteen initials after their names. Think about it, Ryan. If it gets quiet, people fall asleep. Drivers should never, ever fall asleep, right? So, music is like a safety feature. Why do you suppose cars come equipped with radios and CD players anyway?"

"To jack up the price," Ryan retorted. "And we—okay, I—promised your mom."

"She'd never know," Seth wheedled. Ryan shot him a reproving glance and Seth sat back, shifting his hands so that they were precisely at the ten and two positions on the wheel. "Fine Herr Commandant. No music."

Ryan bobbed his head in approval and turned to look out the window. They rode for less than a mile before Seth began twitching in his seat.

"This is, like, totally against nature," he complained. "And, I'm pretty sure, against the Geneva Conventions. Ryan, I'm begging you. I must have sound. If we can't play music, you have to talk to me, man. Is that what you want?"

"Is that what you want?" Ryan countered.

Seth swallowed, remembering his conversation with Sandy, and darted a look in Ryan's direction. His attention was still locked on the landscape outside. "Yeah. I mean, I think . . . yeah, I do."

"Okay," Ryan agreed without turning.

"Okay," Seth echoed.

And then the silence descended again. Seth tolerated it for approximately seventy seconds before he gave up.

"Ryan, for this talking business to work, one of us actually has to say something," he pointed out. He ran a finger around the neck of his t-shirt as if the soft cotton chafed him. "Now, normally, that would be me. Hell, it is me. Here I am, talking. Okay, nothing new there. But . . . man, I need to hear from you. Anything. Even . . . if you still hate me, say so."

Seth kept his eyes fixed on the road and waited.

Ryan sighed. "I don't hate you, Seth. You know that," he said tonelessly. "I never did."

"No? 'Cause I gotta tell you, dude. That's how it felt." Seth averted his face, ostensibly to check the side view mirror, and added, "Still feels, a little, sometimes. Like maybe, right around now. I mean, I brought the mail in Saturday. I know about the letter from UCLA, so if that's got you mad at me all over again . . ."

"I don't hate you," Ryan repeated. "And I'm not mad, exactly. It's just . . ."

"Just what? Open forum, man. All truth, no dare. Whatever is on your mind." Seth realized that he was pressing the accelerator harder than his mother would approve and eased up. "Just say it," he urged.

Ryan hesitated, then blurted in one breath, "Why did you want to sabotage my chance for the internship?"

"What?" Seth swiveled to face Ryan, and the car veered abruptly to the right. He corrected the swerve, waved an apology to the driver honking next to him, and resumed watching the road. "Hell, Ryan, I didn't. I never wanted to sabotage anything for you, man."

"No? What did you think would happen if I didn't show up for the interview?"

Seth cursed himself mentally. He knew questions like that were bound to come up if he and Ryan really talked. He should have prepared answers, memorized them—written them on his palms, if necessary. Now, with no ready response, he just made a noncommittal noise in his throat, hoping some words would form there. They didn't.

"Come on, Seth," Ryan insisted. "Was it just some kind of game to you?"

"No, I . . . no, Ryan. It wasn't." Seth chanced a glance over and saw Ryan's profile, rigid, except for the slight movement of his jaw as he ground his teeth.

Maybe it had all been an aberration— the banter at breakfast and when Ryan came to his room, the camaraderie after the party and all yesterday, even the solidarity when Kirsten was seeing them off. Maybe, despite his claim that he wasn't angry, Ryan's locked door was still the status quo, and he really didn't want to repair their friendship at all.

"God, Seth." Ryan's voice was etched with exasperation. "You never even consider how lucky you are, do you?"

Seth was lost. He had no clue what Ryan was talking about, but Ryan didn't give him a chance to ask any questions before he continued relentlessly.

"Your whole future, all laid out. Whatever you want it to be. College, travel, grad school--anything. And I'm not saying you don't deserve it, Seth, because you do, but, shit, it's just there waiting for you."

"Yeah, but Ryan, you . . ."

"Me?" Ryan's voice was flat and resigned. "If I don't do something for myself, I'm going to wind up pouring concrete and setting support beams at some construction site for the rest of my life."

"Ryan, no," Seth protested. "You'll go to college if that's what you want. Grad school too. Come on. My parents--"

"Are your parents, Seth. Yours."

"Yeah, but no, that's not how I see it, Ryan," Seth argued earnestly. "It's not how they see it either. You've got to know that by now."

"But that's how it is, Seth. Look, your parents are great, and I know if I asked, they'd help me out. But don't you get it? I can't ask. They've done enough for me. If I go to college, I've got to get a scholarship, and that internship . . . hell, it would have helped so much. Given me experience. References maybe--something solid to put on an application."

Ryan's pain and anger were bubbling very near the surface and Seth was desperate to submerge them again.

"Ryan, man, I'm just . . . I'm sorry. I didn't know. If you had told me--"

"Yeah, okay, I suppose I should have said something," Ryan admitted. "But shit, Seth, when you heard that message, didn't you think that just maybe I'd be interested in going? That if I was being called for an interview I must have actually applied for the fucking thing?"

"Yeah, no, see, this is the problem," Seth explained eagerly. "You assume there was an actual thought process involved, man. There wasn't. It was sort of like . . ." Seth stopped. He fixed his attention on making a careful, well-timed lane change and hoped Ryan would ignore the unfinished thought.

"Like what?"

"Nothing."

"Like what, man?"

Seth adjusted the rear-view mirror. "Just . . . nothing, dude . . . So, two more exits, right?"

"Seth . . ." Ryan's voice was hard and suspicious. "Say it."

Seth took a deep breath. "Okay," he blurted. "It was sort of like what happened with you and Jamie at the party." Seth rushed the words, afraid that if he paused, he'd lose his nerve again. "I know it's not exactly the same, Ryan, but it is a little bit." Ryan's eyes narrowed, but Seth continued anyway. "You just acted on impulse, right? And it all backfired. Like it did with me. But you weren't looking to hurt Lindsay. Or trying to sabotage your relationship. Hooking up with Jamie—it was just something you did without thinking. Or well, not exactly something you did, since you got interrupted, but see, the point is--"

Ryan's face set into stony lines. "I get the point. Stop talking Seth."

He glanced over and saw Seth fold his lips together, his eyes dark and defeated, his shoulders slumped. "I mean," Ryan clarified, "maybe you're right. I don't know. Just . . . be quiet and let me think about it, okay?"

"You're not mad or anything? 'Cause, hand to Jesus and Moses, dude, I am not trying to make excuses here."

Ryan leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. One hand had curled into a fist, and Seth watched it nervously.

"Ryan?"

"It's okay, Seth. I'm not mad. I just need to figure some things out."

Seth nodded slightly. "Okay. That's fair. You figure. I'll just sit here and . . . drive."

Ryan returned to staring vacantly out the window, but soon he could feel Seth move restlessly next to him, sitting up, sitting back, rolling his shoulders, jiggling his elbows, bobbing his head. After a few minutes of nonstop fidgeting, Ryan gave up. "You really want some music, don't you Seth?"

"Oh, God. So, so much, Ryan."

Ryan reached toward the CD player, paused. "Kirsten doesn't hear about this," he warned.

"Not from me, mi amigo," Seth guaranteed. "I'd do the whole lips-are-sealed routine, but that would involve taking a hand off the wheel."

"Besides which, your lips are never sealed."

"Yeah, that too," Seth grinned. "So we'll talk more . . ."

"Later," Ryan promised. "After I've had a chance to think . . . Okay, Seth, what's your musical preference today?"

Seth glanced over, registered in an instant that Ryan looked more relaxed, that the chill had left his voice. He shimmied a little with relief. "You know what, bro?" he declared happily. "This time? It's totally what you want."

TBC


	23. Chapter 21

All OC characters belong to Josh & company. Thanks for the feedback.

Collision Course Chapter 21 

Seth sat in the Rover, gaping at the building in front of him. Already eight steps away from the car, Ryan suddenly stopped, realizing he was alone.

"Seth?" he called. "Hey, you coming, man?"

Seth stuck his hand out the window, covertly waving Ryan back.

"What's wrong?" Ryan demanded as he returned.

"I'm thinking, maybe the address?" Seth suggested hopefully. "Or street? This isn't a hospital, Ryan."

"Yeah, no, I know. It's a rehab clinic."

"Ryan, it's a sports clinic." Seth dropped his voice as if "sports" was a code word for gulag and ducked as two huge men strode past. "Look at those guys. Behemoths. Serious freaks of nature, dude. Okay, well, nature and steroids, probably."

"Behemoths, Seth?"

"Big men," Seth explained, slinking down in his seat. "Big, ginormous men of Greek myth proportions. Ryan, we don't belong at a sports clinic. It's for people who pretty much require their own zip codes. Sports-type people."

Ryan hoisted the strap of his bag higher onto his shoulder. "An ACL is considered a sports injury, Seth," he said impatiently. "The doctor recommended this place."

He started away from the car, but Seth clutched his sleeve. "Okay, Ryan, not trying to dis your athletic cred here, and yeah, I know you were on a bike at the time, but, dude, your knee? Totally not a sports injury. I mean it's not as if you were riding in the Ile de France when it happened."

"Tour." Ryan smirked slightly. "Tour de France, Seth. Stop being an ass and come on."

Seth nodded and puffed out his chest manfully. "Just making sure we were at the right place, dude." He reached for the door handle, then shrank back again when another athlete jogged past. "Okay, Ryan, that guy has no neck," he whispered. "Are they going to build him one in there? Or maybe transplant one? Because I am not volunteering to be a donor."

Ryan snorted, a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan.

"Hey," Seth protested, "I'm just saying." He gave a self-deprecating shrug, as Ryan looked thoughtfully from him to the clinic doors.

"Tell you what, Seth. Your dad just asked you to drive me here. You don't have to come in. Want to wait for me in the car?"

"Yes, Ryan, yes," Seth confessed fervently, "that is exactly what I want. But . . ." He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I'm not going to. What kind of a friend would I be if I let you walk into Mordor alone? Would Sam do that to Frodo? No, Ryan, he wouldn't, and I refuse to be a lesser man—or hobbit, I guess—than Sam. So I'm with you, dude, all the way to Mount Doom." Seth unfastened his seat belt. He flexed his arms, checking to see if any muscles would magically appear.

Ryan shook his head, his lips twisting into a wry grin. "This isn't Mordor, Seth," he pointed out. "And you don't have to prove anything. This isn't a big deal, really. The place is just a kind of giant gym, that's all . . ."

"Right. You say giant gym, I say Orcan stronghold. Same diff, dude." Seth pointed across the parking lot. "Look at that guy there. Tell me he's not one of the fighting Uruk-hai."

"Yeah, Seth. Your **_Lord of the Rings_** DVDs? Really, give them a rest." Wincing a bit as he repositioned his bag, Ryan checked his watch. "Okay, look, I've got to get inside. You coming or staying?"

Seth grimaced. He set his shoulders resolutely and gathered his supplies. "Coming with," he declared, getting out of the car. Then he spun around, fumbling to unlock the door again. "Wait, Ryan," he called, as he shuffled through his bag. "I'm coming. But I think this crowd won't really appreciate my graphic novels. Aesthetically, I mean." Seth shoved the comic books that he'd planned to read onto the seat and trotted after Ryan, demanding, "You don't have any more appropriate reading material handy, do you? Popular Mechanics? Sports Illustrated? Testosterone Today?"

"Seth," Ryan growled, glaring over his shoulder. "Remember how we weren't talking to each other a few days ago?"

Seth nodded.

"You suppose we could do that again?"

For the fifth time, Kirsten reread the spreadsheet in front of her. She had no idea if the figures were correct or not, and frankly, she didn't care. Work was supposed to keep her occupied, make the time pass more quickly, but no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't concentrate.

"God," she groaned, pushing her hands through her hair. "Focus, Kirsten." Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths and then looked at the spreadsheets again.

No. It was pointless.

Kirsten shoved the papers haphazardly into a folder and reached for the phone. Maybe, she thought, she should just check with Seth and find out what the boys wanted for dinner.

No. She couldn't do that either. They'd be home in plenty of time to tell her that. If she wanted to call she needed a more plausible excuse, and right now Kirsten couldn't think of any reason except the truth: to reassure herself that they were all right.

It was ridiculous, even irrational, Kirsten knew. Still, whenever she pictured Seth and Ryan setting out in that car, she couldn't quell a sick feeling of dread. Without thinking about it, she wandered to the kitchen, and started to slide a bottle out of the wine rack. Then her gaze caught the clock. Not even eleven a.m.—too early for lunch, much too early for her to have a drink.

"Damn, damn, damn," Kirsten muttered, mentally slapping her own wrist. Sighing, she replaced the bottle and began to heat water for tea instead. She stood impatiently waiting for it to boil, fingering her speed dial, still debating whether to call the boys.

When the doorbell rang, Kirsten felt a wash of relief. Company. Good. Anybody would be a welcome distraction, she thought as she returned to the living room. Then she opened the door, and groaned silently, correcting herself. Caleb was standing outside, dapper and cool in the midmorning heat, tapping his soft leather briefcase against his leg.

"Dad." Kirsten took a deep breath and braced herself. "Come on in. I thought you might stop by today."

Caleb raised his eyebrows. "Really?" he asked as he stepped inside. "Why? Is there some problem I'm supposed to know about, Kiki?"

"What? No. I just thought . . ." Kirsten caught herself, covering her confusion by kissing her father hello. If he hadn't come to complain about the boys' behavior at his house, she certainly wasn't going to bring up the subject. "I thought that since the re-launch party is over, you might want to discuss the direction that the Newport Group should take now."

Caleb smiled in approval. "Actually, that's exactly what I came here to do." He unbuttoned his jacket and made himself comfortable on the couch, adding, "Of course, it would be more convenient if we could talk business at the office."

Kirsten flushed. "I'll be back soon," she promised vaguely.

"Yes, I'm sure you will. When you're not needed so much at home."

Kirsten searched her father's face for some sign of sarcasm, but his expression was completely benign. "So . . ." she prompted. "Do you have any specific ideas, Dad?"

Ignoring the question, Caleb indicated Kirsten's teacup. "If you were going to offer me some, Kiki . . . "

"Oh, of course. Or would you prefer coffee?"

"Tea is fine," Caleb said. He waited until Kirsten returned with his drink, took a sip, and then asked, "Are Seth and Ryan around?"

Instantly, Kirsten stiffened, back on guard. "No," she answered warily. "Seth drove Ryan to rehab this morning. Why? I thought you were here to discuss the company."

"I am." Caleb's voice was bemused and the smile he gave Kirsten appeared completely candid. "Kiki, you don't have to jump any time I mention the boys' names." Kirsten's brows rose skeptically, and he gave an injured sigh. "I just thought if they were available we could invite them to join our conversation."

"Seth and Ryan?" Kirsten demanded incredulously. "Why would we do that?"

Pushing his teacup aside, Caleb cleared workspace on the coffee table. "Just let me explain," he urged. "Yesterday I was cleaning out files, and I glanced through some proposals that we rejected previously. One of them was for the youth center you and Sanford wanted the Newport Group to build."

Kirsten frowned. "Why would you revisit that idea, Dad? You hated it. As I recall, you said that kids around here don't need—what did you call it? A glorified playground—since they can already use the country club and the yacht club, and for the ones who don't, there's always the beach."

Caleb laced his fingers under his chin, looking abashed. "Yes, well, I did say that," he conceded. "And ordinarily, I don't believe a youth center would qualify as a Newport Group project, but under the circumstances, I believe it's worth another look."

"What circumstances?" Kirsten demanded. "What's different now?

"The Newport Group is different," Caleb replied, opening his briefcase, and disregarding his daughter's dubious expression. "Building a youth center might help us to demonstrate that." His lips twisted ironically. "Perception is everything, you know. And we need to establish a new image. I think the company has to make a show of good faith right now, prove to the public that we've reinvented ourselves after the . . . scandals . . . of the past few months, and show that we're committed to the welfare of this community."

He handed a file to Kirsten and sat back. She took the papers, but she didn't even glance at them. "Are we?" she asked bluntly. "Or is this just a business ploy, Dad?"

"You're not naïve, Kirsten. And I've never pretended to do things strictly for altruistic reasons," Caleb admitted. "Of course it's a ploy. But no matter what my motives are, I thought you would be pleased. After all, the end result will be exactly what you and Sandy wanted--the children in Orange County will get a youth center."

Kirsten thumbed through the file. "That's true," she murmured. "And no matter what you think, the area does need one, Dad. Everyone in Newport doesn't belong to the clubs. The kids in the numbered streets, for instance . . ."

"Yes," Caleb said thoughtfully. "I seem to remember you arguing that we could provide an outlet for them. So . . . can I count on your support when I present this idea to the Board of Directors?"

"Of course," Kirsten agreed. Her eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Absolutely, Dad. And I know Sandy would be glad to help too. This is exactly the sort of project we'd love to see the Newport Group front."

Caleb nodded, smiling. "Good. I'm glad you're on board, Kiki." He took a square envelope out of his briefcase. "Now, I hope you'll be as receptive to my other idea."

Kirsten tensed slightly. "What other idea?"

"Well, Kiki, this is a youth center, and while I consider myself to be in the prime of life, I don't believe anyone would call me young anymore. I'm afraid even you don't really qualify."

"Gee," Kirsten said wryly, "thanks Dad."

Caleb laughed. "Now, sweetheart, you know what I mean. I just think that to do this project successfully we need the input of the young people it's intended to serve. Find out what they like to do, what kind of facility would appeal to them. And that reminded me of the conversation you and I had at the party."

Kirsten's smile vanished. "What part of our conversation?" she asked suspiciously.

"You claimed that I don't really know Seth and that I don't want to know Ryan," Caleb recalled. Kirsten started to respond, but he waved a hand in apology and continued, "No, I've thought about it, and you were right, Kiki. Seth and I used to be close when he was younger. We enjoyed each other's company when I taught him to sail, but in the past few years, we've drifted apart. My fault, I know . . ."

"You just need to let Seth be his own person, Dad," Kirsten advised earnestly. "He really wants you to be proud of him. And as for Ryan . . ."

"I am proud of Seth," Caleb insisted. "And well, as for Ryan . . ." He shrugged, grimly tapping the edge of the envelope against the arm of his chair. "Perhaps I haven't given him the chance to show me what he's really like. But this project could help me remedy that situation."

Kirsten narrowed her eyes, trying to read her father's business face. "What do you mean exactly?"

"Well, I'd like to make the youth center a family affair, Kiki, get the boys involved with it. Ryan especially. You tell me he has an interest in construction and architecture—"

"Not just an interest, Dad. I told you he was talented."

"That's right," Caleb amended. "You did. And I promise, I plan to let Ryan show me what he's capable of doing." His voice tightened almost imperceptibly. "But you have to understand, Kirsten, I've had reasons to distrust the boy. Burning down our model home, those fights last year, the suspension from school, getting that girl pregnant . . . And now that he's dating my daughter . . ."

Kirsten's cheeks flushed. "Don't you dare," she warned tersely. "May I remind you who Lindsay is and how she got here? You cheated on my mother when she was sick, you got the other woman in your life pregnant, and then you denied your child until you had to acknowledge her or go to jail. Don't even think about taking the moral high ground here, Dad. At least Ryan--"

"Kiki, please," Caleb interjected, raising his hands in surrender. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just mentioned Ryan's past in order to explain my feelings . . . Past feelings. But never mind. I apologize." He took her hand in both of his. "Truce?"

Kirsten gave a shaky sigh. "I suppose," she whispered, unconvinced.

"Good." Caleb squeezed her hand and released it. "You want me to get to know the real Ryan, and that's exactly what I intend to do. Now, this is my dea, but if you don't approve, I promise I'll drop it . . ." His voice trailed off and he looked at Kirsten questioningly.

"Just tell me, Dad."

"I'd like Ryan and Seth both to serve on an advisory panel for the youth center—you know, to give us authentic teenage input. Actually, I thought I would ask Ryan to head the group." Caleb slid the envelope he'd been holding over to Kirsten. "This is an invitation for the boys. I'm going to host a kick-off dinner at my house this Friday to explain the whole project and their role in it."

"Dad--" Kirsten began. She sounded a little dazed.

"Now, it's not just Seth and Ryan," Caleb assured her hastily. "I'm inviting other teenagers, some of their classmates in fact, so it won't be awkward . . ."

"You and Ryan and Seth. And it won't be awkward?" Kirsten scoffed with a rueful smile. "Let's look the word up in the dictionary, shall we?"

Chucking slightly, Caleb shook his head. "But as I said, it won't be just the three of us," he insisted. "And we'll have something meaningful to discuss, so we won't be sitting around making small talk. I know Ryan doesn't enjoy that . . . Kiki, I am trying to make things right here."

Kirsten bit her lip. "I don't know, Dad . . ." she murmured.

"Sweetheart, really, what can it hurt? My relationship with those boys is already terrible. I hardly think it can get any worse."

"But Seth's and Ryan's friendship is just getting back to normal. And working on a project with you . . . It will be another tense situation . . ."

Caleb leaned forward. "But they'll have each other for support. Kiki, I thought you wanted me to mend fences with them . . ."

"No, I do . . ." Kirsten took a deep breath. "All right," she agreed. "I'll give them the invitation and explain the project. But, Dad, you have to accept whatever decision they make. I am not going to force them to go."

Caleb smiled and got up, buttoning his jacket. "Of course not, sweetheart. But I hope you tell them how much their participation would mean to the company—and to me personally. Because I really think I can learn a lot about the boys this way."

Kirsten trailed her father to the door, still holding the invitation. She lifted her cheek for his goodbye kiss, then stopped suddenly. "Dad—wait. You said the dinner is this Friday?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Seth can't be there. He already has plans with Zach. They're presenting their comic book ideas at an industry trade show in L.A. It's very important to Seth. I'm sure I mentioned that to you--"

Caleb's brows furrowed. "Did you?" he asked vaguely. He straightened his cuffs, avoiding Kirsten's eyes. "Oh yes, that's right, you did. I'm sorry, Kiki. I forgot all about it. Well then, we'll just get Seth involved at a later date. I don't expect him to cancel his plans, but the other invitations are in the mail, so I can hardly change the date now."

"I understand that, but Dad, if it's just you and Ryan, I don't think . . . I really doubt that he'll want to come," Kirsten admitted worriedly.

"Just ask him, Kiki. Please?" Caleb urged. "Remind him that there will be other young people there—friends of his. And I won't even be around most of the time. As soon as I explain the project, I plan to turn the evening over to Ryan."

"You will?"

Caleb nodded, smiling tightly. "If I hope to get honest reactions, I really think I need to leave the young people alone. What do you say, sweetheart? You'll give Ryan the invitation?"

Kirsten hesitated.

"Kiki? I really think this is important to all of us."

"All right, Dad," she agreed finally. "I'll talk to Ryan for you."

"This is it?" Summer asked, wrinkling her nose dubiously. "This doesn't look like a lawyer's office, Lindsay. I thought they were all . . ."

"Stuffy?" Sandy teased as he opened the door, waving Summer and Lindsay inside. "Conservative? Boring? Bland? All of the above?"

Summer grinned. "Pretty much," she admitted. "You weren't supposed to hear that, Mr. Cohen. But anyway, this office is different. It's much more . . . well, you."

Sandy scanned the beachfront view before turning to the comfortable furnishings inside, the surfboards propped against the wall, which was hung with bright, framed posters. "I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"Oh, it totally is," Summer declared. She plopped down on the couch and gave a contented sigh. "This place is so nice I don't even mind giving up my first spring break morning to do an errand for Cohen. Seth, I mean. And, oh, don't tell him that I said that, okay, Mr. Cohen? He'll think he doesn't owe me, and he so does."

"Hey, lawyer-client confidentiality applies to anything said in this office, Summer. Your secret's safe with me. So . . . what can I do for you girls today?" Sandy held up a warning finger. "Let me warn you right now, though—the boys' surprise party quota is used up for the week."

Lindsay, who had been examining the shelves of books with something like awe, turned around and smiled, blushing slightly. "Oh no, we know that, Sandy. And thanks again, by the way, for, well, everything yesterday."

"Our pleasure," Sandy said. He poured them all some lemonade and passed the glasses around. "I think having all of you over was really good for the boys."

"It was good for all of us," Lindsay replied. "I think it really helped us to, well, sort of reconnect."

Sandy nodded. His tone was grave, but his eyes were laughing. "Then it was worth using up all of the post-it notes we had at home."

Lindsay and Summer exchanged glances and burst into giggles.

"I wish I could have seen Seth's face!" Summer exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Chino's too—I mean Ryan's. We really should have hooked up a video camera."

"Summer!" Lindsay reproved. "That would have just been mean . . . And you're right. We so should have."

Sandy settled back, savoring the moment—tension-free, full of fun. It was exactly the mood he wanted restored in his family. They'd enjoyed snatches of it—when Ryan prepared breakfast, yesterday during the impromptu party—but something always intruded, like Ryan's letter from UCLA, or Kirsten's terror when the Rover was returned. And then it all bubbled back to the surface, thick and opaque, all the anger, frustration, resentment, betrayal . . .

He really hoped he'd been right to send Seth and Ryan off alone, together, and to suggest to his son that they use the time to talk things out.

Words could heal, or they could hurt.

No one knew that as well as a lawyer.

"Sandy?"

Shaking his head slightly, Sandy focused, realizing that Lindsay and Summer had sobered and were looking at him expectantly. "So . . . you said you were running an errand for Seth?" he prompted. "What does my son need from my office?"

"Your advice," Lindsay replied. She ran a finger around the rim of her glass thoughtfully. "At least, we do. It's sort of complicated, Sandy. You see, Seth really wants to do something to make up for, well, costing Ryan the internship this summer."

Sandy nodded, made a noncommittal noise, and waited.

"Cohen had this idea," Summer explain. "He thought that maybe he could find a different program for Ryan—you know, probably not as good as the one Lindsay's doing, but close. Only science is so not his area, and he didn't know where to start looking. So he asked me to help."

"Ah," Sandy said, raising his eyebrows. "Seth thought you would know some good physics programs. Of course."

Summer choked on her mouthful of lemonade. "Not me, Mr. Cohen. God, physics? Ew," she spluttered. "I don't do boring . . . No offense, Lindsay. No, Seth just wanted me to talk to Lindsay and get her to find some programs for him. He was, well, sort of afraid she'd say no if he asked her himself."

"Got it. You're the go-between," Sandy concluded.

"I prefer to think of myself as the facilitator. But, you know, whatev." Summer gave an airy wave. "Anyway, Lindsay agreed to do the research . . ."

Lindsay's face clouded. "But I failed," she confessed miserably. "I was online almost all night, and I couldn't find any summer programs Ryan would qualify for. There were a few research assistantships, but you can't apply unless you're already in college. I wanted to ask Mr. Greenburg for suggestions, but I can't, because he's away for spring break."

Summer gave an indelicate snort. "Oops—sorry!" Hastily, she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "I just pictured Mr. Greenburg on the beach in a Speedo. And well, ew. But, you know, back to the subject."

"Right," Lindsay agreed. "The subject . . . So, Sandy, I know you're not a scientist or anything . . . well, I mean, obviously you're something. You're a lawyer, and a really good one—and, God, I'm babbling again."

Sandy put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "It's all right, honey. I live with Seth. I can translate babbling pretty accurately. You'd like me to see if I can find a summer program for Ryan, right?"

Lindsay nodded.

"Well," Sandy said honestly, "I can't promise anything. But I'm glad to know that Seth is really thinking about what his actions cost Ryan, and not just trying to make things up to him with some new video games. So I'll see what I can do."

Lindsay gave him a spontaneous kiss. "Thank you so much. You're just the best, Sandy."

Sandy smiled. "I was going to say the same thing about you two. My boys are really lucky to have you girls in their lives."

Without anything else to occupy his time, Seth huddled in a corner of the cavernous room, listening to his iPod, checking his watch at half-minute intervals, and trying to keep his feet tucked safely away from rolling barbells.

Not that any barbells were rolling. But Seth thought they might. Everything around appeared life-threatening to him—the machines, the weights, and particularly the people, almost all of whom looked huge, fierce, and most frightening of all, completely comfortable with pain.

There was no way Seth could avoid the fetid smell of raw sweat, but at least his music drowned out the primal grunts that echoed through the room. He would have closed his eyes, but he figured he needed to stay alert in case a stray medicine ball suddenly barreled in his direction, or a weighted disc fell from one of the suspended machines, and he needed to somersault to safety.

"_You could wait for me here in the lobby," Ryan had suggested when they arrived._

_Seth surveyed the area and nodded. It was Spartan—hard chairs, armless couches. No coddling or comfort allowed, obviously. Seth figured the décor must be part of the "no pain no gain" mystique his gym teachers always cited when they pushed him to run one more brutal lap. Personally, Seth only bought into the "no pain" part, so he really would have appreciated a cushion or two scattered around. But the room did have windows, and between the view and his music, he could do some serious escapist daydreaming. Maybe even sneak back to the car for a while and read a comic book or two._

_After all, he'd seen Ryan safely inside the building. Now the physical therapist would take over._

_Ryan finished checking in and shouldered his gym bag. "So I'll be done in about an hour."_

"_Right. See you in sixty," Seth agreed. He watched Ryan head for the locker area and fumble to maneuver his crutch and bag so that he could open the door. To his own chagrin, Seth heard himself call, "Wait. Ryan, wait. I changed my mind. I'm coming with."_

_The Moses part of him might not recognize the concept, but the Jesus side understood precisely what this was: penance, pure and simple._

At least it was almost over. Three minutes and counting, counting having been Seth's primary mental activity during the last hour as he ticked off the number of times Jason, the physical therapist, pushed Ryan through each exercise.

Seth decided that "Jason" with its horror-movie connotations, was a very apt name, since the activities he supervised all looked like pure torture from Seth's perspective. Ryan, on the other hand, didn't seem affected by the pain, and he never exactly had to be pushed into more repetitions. In fact, Seth thought he looked disappointed each time the therapist ended an activity.

"Okay, that's it," Jason announced finally, tossing Ryan a towel. "Good job, man. Definitely ahead of the curve. You keep going like this, we should cut a couple weeks off your recovery time easy."

Ryan scrubbed the towel across his face, panting slightly. "We could do more now," he suggested. "I'm not tired."

Jason laughed. "Maybe you're not, but your muscles have had enough for this session. Just do those exercises that we talked about at home and I'll see you next time, kid." He picked up his clipboard, touched his forehead in a half-salute and headed for the office area.

"So, what now?" Seth asked, clambering to his feet, and trying to stamp some feeling into the right one, which had fallen asleep. "A shower, some juice, and 'home, James', right dude?"

He reached a hand down to Ryan, who was straddling some strange kind of bench, but instead of getting up, Ryan just blew out a heavy breath and hooked his feet under the weights again.

"Five more minutes, Seth."

"What are you talking about, man? Time's up. The fat lady sang. And Jason said you should quit." Seth looked at Ryan's determined expression and decided to bring out the big guns. "Besides, mom's expecting us home. She'll worry if we're late."

Ryan bit his lip, massaging the back of his neck absently. "Yeah, she probably will."

"Definitely will, dude. So . . ."

"So call her, okay, Seth? I'm not ready to quit yet." Ryan began pulling his knees alternately toward his chest, spacing his words between gulps of air. "The more of these fucking exercises I do, the sooner all of . . . this . . . is over."

Seth shook his head, beginning to bounce uncertainly on his toes. "Ryan, okay, I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way. I mean, isn't Jason supposed to know how much you should do at a time? He's got the degree and the license and the nametag, right? And a whistle, dude. In a gym. Doesn't that mean, like, ultimate authority? You never argue with the man wearing a whistle." Seth paused and added earnestly, "Ryan, I really think you should stop for today."

"Yeah?" Ryan snapped. "Well, you don't make my decisions, all right? I know what I'm doing. Just go call Kirsten."

Seth retreated a step, holding up his hands. "All right, Ryan. Fine. But you won't mind if I just stop in the office, clear the extra time with Jason, maybe have him come back and do that spotty thing . . . Spotting, I mean . . ."

Ryan's eyes narrowed and Seth shuffled back uneasily. As he did, he stumbled into the man behind him, knocking him off balance and into a support bar. There was the sharp, sick smack of bone hitting metal.

The sheer sound of the impact hurt, and Seth winced in sympathy. "Oops. Sorry there, man," he stammered when the guy clutched his elbow, yelping in pain.

"Shit!" the man exclaimed. "Watch the fuck where you're going, kid." He grabbed Seth's arm and spun him around.

Ryan was up and between the two of them before Seth could even react. "Back off, man," he growled, pushing Seth out of the way.

"Hey, no, Ryan, it's all right." Seth attempted a reassuring smile. He glanced around to see if any of the staff was on their way over to play security guard, but nobody seemed to be in the area. "I'll just apologize to the nice man—again—and we'll leave, okay?"

"No. You already said you were sorry. And it was an accident." Ryan wavered momentarily on his unsupported bad knee, but he stood his ground, glaring up at the other man, who had at least four inches on him.

"Come on, Ryan. This is so not worth it. Let's just get out of here." Seth cocked his head in the guy's direction. "Dude--Uruk-hai," he hissed.

"What the hell did you just call me?" the man demanded, trying to reach past Ryan, who blocked him, his jaw set dangerously.

"Um . . . Call you? Nothing," Seth spluttered. "No, see, I just said 'You're rock high.' Not 'high' like on anything because, yeah, I'm sure you're not. Body a temple and all that. Just, you know, high as in tall. Rock as in strong, ripped . . . Totally a compliment, dude."

Ryan clenched his teeth. "Shut up, Seth . . ." he seethe, Seth continued, oblivious.

"See, I understand you not getting it though, because it's kind of hardcore street slang. Not really in widespread use yet. Do you listen to rap? 'Cause if you listen to rap . . . "

The man glowered at Seth over Ryan's head. "You mocking me, you little sonofabitch?"

Seth hopped backward, trying unsuccessfully to pull Ryan with him. "Absolutely not. Sir. So, not a rap fan. That's cool."

"Let go, Seth. And you, asshole . . . I told you to back off," Ryan warned, taking a step further into the man's space.

"Yeah?" the guy snarled, unimpressed. "Or what?"

Seth saw it coming, but he couldn't stop it.

Ryan cocked his arm. "Or this," he retorted, and snapped his fist forward, into the man's face.


	24. Chapter 22

Well, at least we're getting there. Two chapters more, I think. Three max. God, marathons are hard to run. Anyone have some water? 

You all know the disclaimers by heart, right? Say it with me: Not mine. And thank you, as always, for the reviews, and for sticking with this endless story.

Chapter 22 

Seth sat glumly behind the wheel of the Rover, fingering his aching chin and wincing as he rotated his jaw a few times. He glanced at Ryan, who was staring straight ahead. An icepack rested on his swollen knuckles, and he shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his arm in a new, rigid sling.

"Okay, dude. I do have one piece of good news," Seth announced with a tentative grin. "Turns out, I can still talk."

Ryan's eyes slid over for a moment, reluctantly amused. "Yay," he said, twirling his index finger. "And the whole world rejoices."

"Well, yeah, you would think. Unfortunately, there's some bad news too."

Ryan's half smile disappeared. "Yeah. I figured." He nodded and turned to look out the window.

"Hey, I've really tried, man. But I've got nothing," Seth sighed. He watched Ryan switch the icepack to his wrist. "How do we explain to the 'rents that you're in worse shape coming back from rehab than you were before you went?"

"I'm not in worse shape," Ryan mumbled.

"No, 'cause it did your arm a lot of good to smash into three hundred pounds of solid muscle. What do they call that? High impact therapy? Seriously, man. The fists of fury? That was so not the time to unleash them."

Ryan shrugged one shoulder. "The guy was a fucking ass. And he was about to become a violent fucking ass after your Uruk-hai comment."

Seth slouched down in his seat. "Okay, yeah," he conceded. "In hindsight? Probably not the smartest thing I've ever said. But who knew he'd be a Tolkien fan and understand what it meant? Besides, Ryan, I wouldn't have said anything if you weren't about to go all Fight Club on a guy twice your size. Which you did anyway, so the remark?" Seth shook his head sadly. "Stupid and useless. Much like my attempt to get the orc off you." He rubbed his chin again and checked the mirror to see how many new colors had appeared in his complexion.

Ryan shot Seth a sideways glance. "Does it hurt?"

"Mostly my pride and good looks. Unless, I don't know, it makes me look all manly and tough? Intimidating even?" Ryan's lips twitched and Seth exhaled dramatically. "Well, a guy can hope . . . So, buddy, you mind telling me what went on in there?"

"You were there, Seth. You know what went on."

"Ah, yeah, right. Only not. Let me rephrase. I know what happened. What I'm wondering is why."

"You know that too," Ryan argued impatiently. "The guy was set to whale on you, Seth. Just because you made him bump his fucking elbow. Was I supposed to just stand by and let him?"

"Hey no, I'm not saying I didn't enjoy the latest episode of Ryan Atwood to the Rescue. I just wanted to be sure it wasn't like . . . misplaced aggression or something." Seth paused, thumping a nervous tattoo on the steering wheel. "Like, you weren't beating the crap out of orc-man, but picturing me."

Ryan stared at Seth incredulously. "You've really gotten into that intro psych class, haven't you?" he snorted. "Hell, Seth, if I was still angry with you, I would have just let the asshole punch your lights out."

Seth twisted all the way around in his seat to face Ryan directly. "No, see, that's just it, dude. You wouldn't," he replied with anxious intensity. "I know that much about you. No matter how pissed you might be at me, you still would have stepped in. So I just, you know, wanted to be sure. Because most of the time now it seems like we're okay, but then there are these flashes, like on the way over here, when I think maybe really . . . we're not."

Ryan bit his lip, staring pensively out the window. "We're okay, Seth," he said. His voice gave away nothing.

"Good, then. Yeah, that's good. So, okay, I'm not the problem. Then what is, bro? Because my tingling Spidey sense tells me there is still a problem. Talk to me, Ryan." Seth gave a self-deprecating smile, winced a little, and added, "Hell, in honor of the occasion, I'll even keep my mouth shut and listen for a change."

He counted to ten, waiting, counted again, and gave up.

"Hey, you know, dude? The whole listening thing? Really a lot easier when somebody else actually talks."

Ryan exhaled heavily, ruffling his bangs, but otherwise didn't respond.

Seth thought for a moment, rubbing his palms against the steering wheel. "Okay," he suggested. "How about we try this, Ryan? Twenty questions. Or, well, questions anyway. Exact number to be determined later. I ask, you answer. No pressure."

Ryan examined his swollen knuckles. "No pressure?"

"Seriously, none. Nod, shake your head, yes, no, no comment, shut the fuck up, Seth—all of them perfectly acceptable answers. What do you say?"

"Fine."

"Also acceptable. See, it's working already. Okay, then. Here we go." Seth studied Ryan, but he couldn't read his expression. "You're still really upset, aren't you?"

"Not with you."

"Good to know, but, I've got to say, a little evasive there, buddy. So let's try again . . . Are you still upset?" Seth felt like a dentist, probing carefully, trying to avoid hitting a nerve.

Ryan's mouth twisted. He hunched one shoulder, which Seth interpreted as a "yes."

"Does it have anything to do with why you were trying to cram six weeks of rehab into one super session?"

"I didn't . . ."

"Yeah, dude, you so totally did."

"Shit," Ryan sighed. "Okay, Seth, look. This whole getting better business is taking too fucking long. I just need to speed it up so I know I can work, all right?"

"Work?" Seth pronounced the word as if he were learning a foreign language. "What are you talking about? Work on what? And really, why? It's spring break, dude. This is official 'no work' time—well, unless Dad goes post-it note crazy again. And if he does, you know, we should call the ACLU, because I'm pretty sure no work during spring break is in the Bill of Rights." He bobbed his head and peered over hopefully, but Ryan didn't smile.

"I'm not talking about now, Seth."

"Well, good. But . . . then when?"

"Summer, okay?"

Seth's faced creased, puzzled. "So you're thinking about summer now?"

"The season," Ryan clarified. "Not the girl, Seth."

"Yeah, well, I assumed. That is, I certainly hope so . . . But anyway, what do you mean, Ryan? About working this summer?"

Ryan sat back awkwardly, chewing his lip. He didn't answer for a moment. Then he blurted abruptly, "I was a fucking idiot, all right?"

"No. Not all right. I mean . . . what the hell, Ryan? That makes, like no sense at all. Now if I said it? Yeah, well then, sure." Seth laughed ruefully. He watched for a moment, waiting, as Ryan tightened his grip on the melting icepack. "You've got to give me more than that, dude," he urged. "Please? 'Cause, hand to Jesus and Moses, I'm really lost here.""

Ryan nodded. "Fine." He took a few shaky breaths before continuing. "It's just . . . Living with you guys . . . it's too easy to forget real life, you know?"

"Yeah, only no." Seth's voice was both confused and frustrated. "This is real life, Ryan."

"Look, Seth, I mean . . . about the internship. Lindsay was always so sure I'd get it. And I let myself believe her," Ryan explained painfully. "Because everything had just been going so . . . right. So I never even figured out any back-up plan, which was beyond stupid. Because, shit, there was always a good chance that I wouldn't be chosen, even if I made it to the interview. Hell, especially if I made it to the interview."

Frantically, Seth rewound the conversation they'd had on the drive over and played it back in his mind, but he still couldn't figure out exactly what Ryan was saying.

"Humor me, bro," he suggested slowly. "Pretend I'm as stupid as I really am. From the beginning, in words of one syllable, okay?"

A muscle in Ryan's jaw twitched. "I was counting on the fucking internship, okay?" he explained. "I told you, it would have given me something to jump-start some scholarship applications. Shit, it even paid decent money, and it would have counted as a college credit . . . I don't have a Plan B, Seth."

"And that would be a Plan B to . . .?"

"To put money aside for college," Ryan replied. "Seth, we're fucking seniors next year. So I've got to get a job this summer. And waiting tables won't pay enough. The only thing that might is construction work, but it's not like I can do it this way." He lifted his sling with disgust.

Seth nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, I think I'm up to speed. Ryan, do you want to work construction again?"

"Fuck no," Ryan snapped. "But I have to." He dropped his chin to his chest, and Seth could hear him breathing hard.

"All right then. Let me see if I can follow the Atwood logic here. You're upset because you may not be healed enough by the time school ends to work construction this summer."

"Yeah."

"And you're upset because even if you can do the job, you really don't want it anyway."

Ryan bit his lip in chagrin. "Yeah."

"Then Ryan," Seth concluded miserably, "somewhere in there, you've got to be angry at me for getting you into this situation in the first place."

Ryan slammed his good hand on the dashboard and Seth jumped a little. "I'm not angry at you anymore! How many times do I have to say it? God, Seth, I'm trying to get past all that, okay? Just don't push it."

"Right," Seth said slowly. "'Cause obviously you've got it completely under control . . . Ryan, I've got to ask you. Were you maybe looking for a fight in there?"

"No," Ryan claimed. He massaged his throbbing hand for a minute before amending, "Well. I don't know. Maybe."

"So the fighting Uruk-hai was just the unlucky target."

"He was the deserving target."

"Or maybe the substitute target."

Ryan threw his head back against the seat, staring at the roof. "Maybe," he finally conceded. "But not for you, Seth. Really. Just for, I don't know, everything. The internship, and Kirsten being scared all the time, and causing problems for your parents, and hurting Lindsay, and not knowing what the fuck to do with my life. I . . . had to hit something."

"You know what? I get that," Seth said seriously. "I totally do. But shit, Ryan, couldn't you have used a punching bag? Something that wouldn't hit back? Because dude, the 'rents are so going to kill us for this."

"You think? It's really that bad?"

Seth checked his image in the mirror again to see if the swelling and discoloration had magically disappeared, or at least diminished. No luck at all there. Then he inspected Ryan, noting his swollen hand, the raw, open cut over his eye, barely disguised by a butterfly bandage, and, worst of all, the ominous and incriminating new sling.

"Oh yeah," Seth groaned. "It'll be the Cohen version of a firing squad. No cigarettes. No blindfolds. And no point stalling, I suppose?"

"Nah." Ryan closed his eyes and shook his head. "The later we are the worse it will be."

Seth turned the key in the ignition, but he paused before he put it into gear. "Ryan—explaining the run-in-with-a-Mack-truck look? I've still got nothing."

Ryan smiled ruefully. "Yeah, me either, Seth. I think we're gonna have to go with the truth on this one."

"Man," Seth sighed, as he pulled out of the parking place. "I hate it when that happens."

xxxxxxx

Julie tapped Caleb's office door before she pushed it open and swept in, smiling brilliantly. "Darling," she purred. "I am so sorry I'm late,"

"Juju." Caleb's voice was clipped, and his cool business demeanor barely concealed his irritation. "How nice of you to join us at all. Unfortunately, I'm afraid we've pretty much finished here without you." He indicated the two other men, who had risen at Julie's entrance and were gathering their files.

Julie's fuchsia-tipped fingers flashed a contrite wave as she sat, lazily crossing her legs and letting her skirt ride up to expose most of her thigh. "Walt, Charlie, really, I do apologize, and I hope you didn't waste any time waiting for me," she murmured with a coy smile. "There was just so much traffic this morning. . . and silly me, I let my cell battery run down, so I couldn't even call. But I'm sure you three managed perfectly. Really, when you talk about those complicated zoning issues, I'm out of my depth anyway."

Charlie forced his eyes off Julie's legs, coughing to mask his discomfiture. "Not at all, Julie," he claimed. "You always contribute a great deal to our meetings."

"We enjoy hearing your ideas," Walt added, furtively wiping his palms on his briefcase.

"And you are both sweethearts." Julie pursed her lips, almost, but not quite, making a kissing sound. "I do adore flattery, even when it isn't true . . . In any case, I know Cal will fill me in on everything you discussed, and I'll get in touch with you if I have any questions. But now, gentlemen, if you don't mind . . .?" Her voice trailed off and she inclined her head toward Caleb, lips curving in a significant smile.

"Of course," Walt agreed hastily. "Cal, we'll meet with the zoning commission and have our report for you by the close of business on Wednesday. Julie, lovely to see you."

"You too," Julie replied. "Give my love to your wives . . ."

As soon as the door had closed behind Walt and Charlie, Caleb snorted and pushed himself back from his desk.

"Well, that was quite a display, Juju. I thought you wanted people here to take you seriously as a businesswoman."

Julie shrugged. "Oh now, darling, I was just playing. The meeting was already over after all."

"Yes," Caleb snapped. "It was. And I expected you to be here for it. Do you mind telling me where you've been all this time? No wait, let me guess. Shopping?"

Julie pouted mockingly. "As a matter of fact, no. I was in spinning class."

"Oh. Excuse me. Spinning class—yes, that's a much better reason to miss a business meeting."

"For your information, Cal, I was working. Just on another project. Your special project, as a matter of fact." Julie hiked herself onto his desk and sat back, studying her nails.

Caleb frowned. "You were?" he asked warily. "What exactly did you do?"

"Well, as I told you, I was taking spinning class," Julie replied, idly rearranging the items on Caleb's desk. "And I would have been here in plenty of time to meet with Walt and Charlie, but then I noticed that Tess Stanton was in the gym too. So when class ended, I suggested that we have a drink together and a little . . . girl talk. That's why I was late. But really, darling." Julie wrinkled her nose. "I lied about my cell phone. The battery's fine."

"What does that--?" Caleb broke off, his annoyance vanishing abruptly. "Tess Stanton," he intoned, with dawning recognition. "And she would be—"

"Fred Stanton's wife. More importantly, Jamie Stanton's mother." Julie poured two glasses of ice water from the carafe on Caleb's desk and offered one to him.

"Ah yes," Caleb said. He raised his eyebrows and touched Julie's glass in a toast.

"Tess and I had a lovely chat," Julie reported. "About this and that. Fashion, gossip, vacation plans. You know, the usual subjects. And, oh yes, we talked about the youth center project. Tess was absolutely charmed to find out that we invited Jamie to join the advisory panel."

"Was she now?"

"Absolutely. Although to be honest, she wasn't sure that Jamie would really be interested in doing something like that." Julie frowned and leaned forward. "I know you were worried that she might turn down our invitation, darling."

Caleb swirled the ice in his glass thoughtfully. "True," he admitted. "And if she's not there . . . well." He shrugged, and drained his glass.

"Exactly," Julie agreed. "So I thought perhaps I should just remind Tess—very subtly, you understand—what an honor it is for Jamie to be invited to help out the Newport Group."

"Did you?" Caleb's eyes gleamed with admiration.

Julie smiled and took a sip before continuing. "And I may have mentioned how good Jamie's participation on the panel will look on her college applications. Really, it's almost like community service, isn't it? Involvement in activities like this says so much about a student's character."

Caleb nodded approvingly.

"And then," Julie said, drawing out the words, "I think somehow we started discussing possible cuts in Fred Stanton's department . . . This economy is such a bitch, isn't it? And the job market is so tenuous these days. . . But I assured Tess that Fred's position should be safe. After all, the Newport Group always rewards employee loyalty, and we know the whole Stanton family is very. Loyal."

Caleb took both their glasses and put them aside. "So I take it we can count on Jamie joining our little group for dinner this Friday?" he concluded.

"Oh yes," Julie confirmed blithely, "she'll be there. Whether she really wants to come or not. Although I'm quite sure she'll enjoy herself. Now . . . " Julie kicked off her shoe and ran her foot up Caleb's leg. "Still mad at me for missing this meeting, darling?"

Caleb laughed. "Juju," he said with satisfaction, "I think I'll let that one slide."

xxxxxxxxx

"Kirsten?" The front door slammed behind Sandy, and he flung his briefcase to the floor as he rushed into the house. "What the hell happened? Where are you? Kirsten?"

"We're in here, Sandy."

Sandy followed the sound of his wife's overwrought voice into the family room.

"Oh, my God. Guys . . ."

"They've been fighting," Kirsten said tersely.

She was sitting on the coffee table, facing Seth and Ryan, who shrank into opposite ends of the couch, trying to hide both their bruises and their guilty expressions. Ryan's injured leg was propped up on a pillow next to Kirsten, and Sandy noticed immediately that he was wearing a different, more rigid sling.

"Fighting," Sandy repeated in disbelief. "You've been fighting."

"Not with each other," Seth amended quickly. "Mom, enough. You've put on, like, half the bottle. And, you know, they already cleaned it out at the clinic." He twisted away from the antiseptic that Kirsten was dabbing on his chin. She ignored him and swiped the cotton across the cut, pressing hard, before turning her attention to Ryan's knuckles.

"This happened at the clinic? Somebody better explain what the hell went on there. Right now. Seth? Ryan?"

"I hope you can get a straight answer from them," Kirsten muttered.

Ryan pressed further into the corner, biting his lip. "Kirsten, we told you the truth," he insisted. "It was nothing. Seth bumped into this guy. The assho--I mean, the man--got bent about it, so I took a swing to keep him from going after Seth . . ."

"But the guy was one of those steroid freaks with seriously hairy knuckles and he went postal . . ." Seth interjected.

"So Seth got hit trying to pull the guy off me, and then the clinic staff broke it up," Ryan concluded. "That's it. That's all."

Sandy's eyes narrowed as he studied the boys. "That's all," he echoed slowly. "All right, let's see. When exactly did this happen?"

"When we were getting ready to leave," Ryan mumbled.

"So in the locker room."

"Not exactly," Seth clarified. "We, um, we were still in the exercise area, or torture chamber, or whatever they call the room with all the evil nightmare machines." He shuddered dramatically. "Ryan was finishing up his last rap."

"Rep, Seth," Ryan corrected automatically.

"Rep. Right. Not rap. Because that would be like, yo bro, hit the weight, hit the weight, hit the weight--"

"Seth!" Sandy waited until his son sank back, abashed. Then he asked, "Just where was your therapist, Ryan? How did he let this happen?"

"He had gone to his office." Ryan risked a quick glance up. "Why the third degree, Sandy? It was just a two-minute fight. Not even a fight, really. And Seth and I . . . I mean, we're both fine."

"Fine!" Kirsten's anger exploded and Ryan winced as she involuntarily squeezed his hand. "This is what you call fine? You're both hurt, and frankly, it's a miracle you didn't wind up back in the hospital, Ryan. You still could. Sandy, ask him what he did to his shoulder."

"Ryan?"

"Nothing! I just—I jarred it that's all. When I punched the guy," Ryan admitted. "But it's nothing really. This sling? They just put it on as a precaution until the doctor checks everything out. And I was supposed see him later today anyway." Ryan's eyes darted from Sandy back to Kirsten and then dropped to his lap. "You guys don't believe me," he observed miserably.

"I'm not sure what I believe yet." Sandy sat on the coffee table next to Kirsten, his knees bumping Seth's. "I'm still trying to sort this out. Okay, Seth, you bumped into this other man. How?"

Seth held up his hands helplessly. "Dad, it was a bump. You know, one body part banging another body part . . . Oh, shit." He grimaced and leaned toward Ryan, whispering, "Dude, did that just sound as porno site as I think it did?" Seth looked up hastily and gave an innocent, deflecting smile. "Not that I visit or even know the names of any porno sites or anything, you understand, Mom and Dad . . . And I can't believe I just said porno sites twice in front of my parents."

"Three times," Ryan muttered.

"Ah. Right you are. Then sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. And sorry, both of you." Seth ticked off his fingers. "Yep. Three apologies."

"Stop it, Seth!" Kirsten ordered, obviously not amused. "You're trying to . . . I don't know. Distract us. Pretend that this all a joke. It's not."

"Um, no, yeah, I know. I mean . . . Sorry, Mom. Again."

Sandy put a soothing hand on Kirsten's shoulder. "Just tell us what happened, son," he instructed. His voice was calm but insistent, and Seth surrendered.

"Right, okay. I was leaving, backing up, when I kind of crashed into this guy behind me, and he smashed his elbow into something. I guess it hurt . . . you know, funny bone pain, not really so funny . . . And the guy got mad. Like, I gotta say, out-of-proportion mad. Then Ryan got up . . ."

"Hold it a minute," Sandy interrupted suspiciously. "You were backing up? Why?"

Seth looked helplessly at Ryan and shrugged. "It was just . . . you know, me, Mr. Clumsy, making one of my patented awkward exits, trying to walk and talk at the same time."

"But didn't you say you were leaving? And Ryan was finishing his last set of exercises? That doesn't make sense. Ryan, why weren't you leaving with Seth? And why were you working out without your therapist with you?"

The boys locked eyes and Seth shook his head in defeat. "I told you—that law degree Dad's got? It's not just a piece of paper. He's good. You might as well tell him, dude."

"Fine," Ryan conceded flatly. "I was doing some extra reps after my session ended."

"You what?" Sandy demanded.

"Ryan!" Kirsten cried in consternation. "You know better than that. The doctor explained the rehabilitation process. He told you that doing too much too soon can make injuries worse."

Ryan swallowed hard. His fingers dug into the fabric of his sling. "Yeah, I know. But it wasn't too much, honestly. I just wanted to do a little bit more. I wasn't tired at all. And . . . I don't think I can stand much more of this, Kirsten," Ryan explained, finishing in a fierce whisper.

"But Ryan--"

"Kirsten? Sweetheart, let it go for now," Sandy suggested gently. "One thing at a time, okay? All right boys, tell us the rest of it."

"There's not much to tell, Sandy. I swear." Ryan took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "Seth wanted me to quit, but I wouldn't, so he was going to get Jason to come back and spot me. Only we were still arguing about it when he started to leave. That's why he wasn't looking where he was going."

Seth nodded. "Right. And that's why I bumped into the Uruk-hai."

"The what?"

"Um . . . Uruk-hai? From **_The Lord of the Rings_**? You know, Dad. You saw the movies."

"I read the books too. Seth, by any chance, did you say anything to the gentleman when you bumped into him?"

"I apologized," Seth replied promptly. "I was polite and sincere and totally took responsibility, and I apologized."

"Anything else? Seth?"

"Uh . . . the phrase Uruk-hai might have slipped out then too. Possibly. Quietly. Humorously. Very, very accidentally." Seth gave a weak, remorseful grin, and folded his hands like a chastised schoolboy.

Sandy snorted in disgust. "Let me guess. The man got offended, and that's when the situation got out of control."

"More or less," Seth conceded. "Okay, more more than less. Um, Dad, are we about done here? Because I'd sort of like to change clothes . . ."

"God, Seth! " Kirsten blurted. She stood up, ready to storm through the room, but she was trapped between Sandy and Ryan's outstretched leg. "Isn't this exactly what we talked about before your party yesterday? We've asked you to think before you open your mouth, but you don't. You never do. You're always in such a damned hurry to be clever."

Kirsten's whole body vibrated with frustration. She pivoted, impaling Ryan with her furious gaze. "And you, Ryan. Exercising after your therapist told you to stop. And then fighting! I don't care what your motivations were, you knew it was dangerous and you did it anyway! After you promised me that you'd follow your doctor's orders."

"Kirsten, calm down." Sandy got up. He reached for Kirsten's waist, but she shook him off.

"Don't you touch me," she hissed. "And don't you tell me to calm down. This is all your fault."

Sandy staggered back, stunned, and Kirsten pushed past him.

"I told you it was a bad idea," she cried. "If you had taken Ryan to rehab the way you were supposed to, this never would have happened. But no, you wanted to force the situation. 'They'll have to talk if Seth drives Ryan,' you said. Well, look at them, Sandy! You might as well have just given them boxing gloves and let them fight it out. That was one of your ideas, wasn't it?"

"Honey," Sandy protested. "Come on, that was a joke."

Seth shuddered, glancing at Ryan and then flexing his own muscles dubiously. "God, I hope so," he muttered.

Sandy ignored his son's comment. "And I'm not saying I'm happy about this, but Kirsten, I really think you're overreacting."

"You mean, like I did about getting the Rover repaired? Well, you know what, Sandy? I don't care what you think!" Kirsten's voice began to tremble, and she had to take long careful breaths in order to steady it. "I am so tired of . . . worrying about this family . . . and seeing the people I love get hurt . . . over and over again."

Ryan stumbled to his feet, stretching his hand out to take hers. "Kirsten, please. Don't be upset. This was all my fault. It's just . . . I was stupid, I know, but I promise it won't happen again . . ."

"Don't Ryan," she snapped, jerking away. "Just . . . don't."

Ryan fell back, looking as though Kirsten had hit him. His face paled and his breath quickened. Instinctively, Sandy moved close and rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Why don't you go to your room, Ryan?" he suggested. "I think we all need some time to cool off here." Ryan raised haunted eyes, his expression defeated, and Sandy urged quietly, "It's okay, kid. Just go."

Ryan nodded and left, avoiding any contact with Kirsten who stood rigid, arms locked around her midriff, on the other side of the room.

"Seth." Sandy turned tiredly to his son who hadn't moved. "I think you should go too. Wash up, change your clothes . . ."

No," Seth said hoarsely. "I mean . . . I need to talk to you guys. About why this all happened. Please, Mom?" he begged. "Stay? And just listen. I think . . . I really think it's important."

Kirsten closed her eyes for a moment. Then, wordlessly, carefully, she sat down in the armchair. Seth looked appealingly at his father and finally Sandy took a seat too.

"Okay, son," he said quietly. "We're listening."

TBC


	25. Chapter 23

Thanks to Schwarts & Co. for the characters; thanks to you for the reviews.   
Collision Course 23 

"Hey," Lindsay called softly, peeking through the front door. "Anybody home?" Her face lit up when Ryan turned back from the hallway at the sound of her voice. "Oh good—just the person I want to see."

Ryan shook his head grimly, even as he greeted her. "Not a good time, Lindsay. At least not to see me."

"Why not?" Lindsay asked. She studied his face, noting with alarm the dark bruises and the darker despair. Instantly, her voice climbed an octave. "What happened, Ryan?"

"Short version? I fucked up." Ryan replied. He shrugged, lips twisting into a sardonic half-smile. "Yeah, right. Again."

Wordlessly, Lindsay reached for his hand. Ryan flinched, and she glimpsed his raw, swollen knuckles. Her breath caught, but she simply slid an arm around his waist and propelled him to his room. Once they were inside she closed the door, turned around to face him, and ordered, "Okay. Now tell."

Ryan sank down on the bed. "Not much to tell," he reported. "Went to rehab. Did too much. Punched a guy who was dogging Seth. Guy hit back. Everyone's upset again. End of story." His bleak gaze flickered up. "Getting really old, huh?"

Lindsay nodded reluctantly. "Really, Ryan? Yeah, it sort of is," she agreed. "I mean, the everyone being upset part? I kind of thought that it was over . . ."

"Me too." Ryan pounded his pillow, then winced. "Should have just left the clinic when Seth wanted to," he muttered.

"Hey, Atwood! Stop that!" Lindsay protested. She sat down, pulling his hand onto her lap. "That is a perfectly innocent pillow. It did nothing to you—and besides, from the looks of your knuckles, you've done enough hitting today. . . So why didn't you? Leave when Seth wanted, I mean?"

Ryan hunched one shoulder. "Thought I'd do a few extra reps," he explained. "Speed up the healing process." He smiled sheepishly, putting a finger to Lindsay's lips, which were already open to object. "And yeah, you don't have to tell me. I know. Stupid idea."

"God! So beyond stupid!" Lindsay exclaimed. "Maybe I was right in the first place and God really doesn't give with both hands . . ." Ryan tilted his head, peering at her through his lashes. "Do not try to charm me," she warned. "I am totally immune to those soulful looks—right now, anyway. Why are you in such a hurry, Ryan? It's not like you'll get a prize for the fastest healing time or anything."

Ryan plucked at the fabric of her skirt. "No, I know," he conceded. "But I can't work construction this summer wearing a sling and hopping around on one leg. And summer's not far away."

"Oh," Lindsay breathed with sudden comprehension. "Is that what you want to do now, Ryan? Get a construction job this summer?"

"No," he admitted. "Not what I want exactly. I mean, don't get me wrong, Lindsay. I like the work. It's honest, you know? Real. And I'm pretty good at it. But after last summer?" Ryan cringed slightly, remembering . . . Chino . . . Theresa . . . their baby . . . so many goodbyes. "I really wanted to do something different this year." He kissed Lindsay's forehead softly and sighed. "You know."

"Yeah, I do," she whispered. She nuzzled her face against his neck. "And I know it's not fair. But even if you can't do . . . what we planned . . . why go back to construction, Ryan?"

Ryan slid back on the bed, pulling Lindsay with him and threading his fingers through her hair. "The money's good," he explained. "And, you know college costs, Lindsay. A lot. So if I don't start saving now . . . Shit." He broke off, his voice abruptly bitter. "Who am I kidding? Now is like twelve years too late."

"You know . . . " Lindsay began, stroking the back of Ryan's wrist. "Kirsten and Sandy would be happy to--"

Ryan wrenched his hand away. "No! I mean . . .Yeah, I know they would, but . . ."

"But what?" Lindsay prompted, honestly confused.

"I can't ask them for money."

"Well, then, it could just be a loan . . ."

"No. I can't ask them for money," Ryan repeated.

Lindsay pushed herself off the bed and whirled around to face Ryan, hands on her hips, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Okay, now it's official. You are stupid, Atwood. Why can't you ask them?"

"Come on, Lindsay." Ryan tried to draw her back on the bed, but Lindsay stepped further away, and he sank back in defeat. "I figured at least you'd understand," he muttered.

"Understand what?" Lindsay countered. "Your stubborn pride? Oh, believe me, I understand that."

Ryan gritted his teeth. "It's not pride," he argued. "It's just . . . the Cohens have already done so much for me."

"Okay, that's true. But have you asked them for any of it?"

"No, not really. But . . ." Ryan's voice trailed off, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Lindsay explained, her hand sweeping around the room, "you never asked them for any of this, have you? Not for a single thing they've given you. Whose idea was it to bring you to Newport, Ryan? Make you part of the family? Send you to private school? Buy you . . . well, anything?"

Ryan clenched his fist in frustration. "Okay, but Lindsay, that's exactly the point. The Cohens have given me everything. How can I ask them for more? Besides, I'll be eighteen soon—"

Lindsay snorted derisively. "So what, Atwood? Fine, you'll be eighteen in a few months. You think your birthday will change anything important?" She took a deep breath, forcing herself to slow down. "Okay, tell me this. Do you love the Cohens?"

"I . . . " Ryan stammered.

"Answer the question, Atwood. Do you?"

"Yeah," Ryan admitted. "I do." His mouth crimped slightly and he added, "I love them a lot."

Lindsay's face softened, and she sat back down, nestling against his shoulder. "See," she murmured as she dropped a kiss on his arm. "That wasn't so hard to say. So, Ryan, when you wake up on your eighteenth birthday, will you suddenly stop caring about them?"

"No, of course not, but . . ."

"Well then, idiot, why would your birthday change how they feel about you?" Lindsay smiled tenderly, playing with Ryan's fingers. "Just think about this, okay? The Cohens made you a member of their family. That was their choice. It wasn't something you forced them to do, or even asked them to do, and they have never, ever suggested that they expect anything from you in return."

"But that doesn't mean I should take advantage of them, Lindsay." Ryan's voice was quietly desperate, begging her to understand. "And just because they haven't asked me to repay them—that doesn't mean I don't owe them. God, I owe them so much already."

Lindsay touched Ryan's chin and tilted his face, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "I know you do, Ryan. Just like I owe my mom, and Summer owes her dad. Just like Seth owes Kirsten and Sandy."

"It's not the same," Ryan insisted.

Lindsay's voice was utterly firm. "It is exactly the same. You want to give the Cohens something, Ryan? Something that will really mean something to them? Well then, let them know how much you love them."

Ryan shook his head, bewildered. "You don't think they know that?"

"No, they do. In a way. But your love comes all wrapped up in gratitude and obligation. I'm not saying you shouldn't feel those things too, but sometimes . . . sometimes, Ryan, those emotions get in the way of what really matters." Lindsay held his gaze for a long, intense moment. "Do you understand? You should accept what the Cohens want to offer you, Ryan. Just try. Stop looking at everything they do for you like, I don't know, some debt you have to repay. I swear, sometimes I think you keep tabs of every time Kirsten buys you clothes, or Sandy pays your tuition bill . . ."

Ryan shifted slightly, and Lindsay stared at him in astonishment, watching a slow flush wash over his skin. "You do," she breathed. "Ryan Atwood, you do keep some sort of record, don't you?"

"Not anymore," Ryan mumbled into his headboard. "But I used to, yeah. Until it got too depressing, because, God, there was so much. And no way I could pay it back."

"Well, of course you can't, dumpkopf!" Lindsay slapped his wrist lightly. "Ryan, if you try to keep a balance sheet, it will never, in a million years, come out even. But you know what? Listen to me now," she warned, her voice a fierce whisper. "Because this is something I absolutely know. It. Doesn't. Have. To. Seriously, Ryan, it doesn't. Not for family." Her tone softened, and Lindsay gently traced the line of Ryan's jaw. "That's all that the Cohens want, silly. They want you to accept them the way they've already accepted you. And just . . . trust them, Ryan. Can you do that?"

Ryan closed his eyes and sucked in his lower lip for a moment before answering cautiously. "I want to. But . . . trust is hard, Lindsay."

"I know it is. But do you think the Cohens deserve it? I mean, all of them? Even Seth?"

Ryan didn't hesitate. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "They do. But that doesn't make it any easier."

"No," Lindsay agreed. "But the fact that it's hard, Ryan . . . that's what makes it the perfect gift."

"The perfect gift," Ryan repeated, twining his fingers through Lindsay's. "Okay. I guess that makes sense. I should just . . . love them. And trust them."

Lindsay sighed happily as she snuggled closer. "Of course it makes sense," she murmured. "I'm quite brilliant, you know."

"Yeah. Pushy too," Ryan teased.

Lindsay's eyes widened. "Oh, you think so, do you?" she asked, sliding a hand under his shirt. "Well, you're right. I am. But tell you what, Atwood. Today I'll let you push me right back."

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Seth drummed an erratic rhythm on his knees, an accompaniment to the argument he was having with himself.

Maybe, he thought, Ryan would resent him if he revealed their conversation to the 'rents. There might be some best-friend confidentiality clause, or some unwritten code that he would be breaking—what's said in the Rover stays in the Rover or something like that. So there was a good chance that the latent anger still simmering inside Ryan—because hell, it was obviously there, no matter how much he denied it—would boil over and scald everyone it touched.

Mostly, Seth figured, it would burn him.

Not an appealing prospect.

On the other hand, he reasoned, everything had gone wrong in the first place because he had blithely ignored Ryan's best interests in favor of his own. So unless he wanted to make the same mistake twice--which would be stupid when there were so many other, brand-new mistakes he could be making instead--Seth couldn't disregard what he had learned today.

Shouldn't, even.

That is, unless he should.

Shit, Seth swore silently. He was probably screwed either way. His fingers strummed faster, and just for good measure, he added a frantic toe tap.

"Son? You wanted to talk to your mother and me?" Sandy prompted, his voice verging on impatience. "Well, we're waiting."

Right. It was decision time. Seth's hands slammed hard on his thighs and he sat up straight.

"There's a lot of money in my college fund, isn't there, Dad?" he blurted.

Sandy's brows furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"A lot of money," Seth repeated. "I mean, enough so if I decide I want to go someplace really expensive, like, like . . . hell, I don't know. Like maybe Harvard. Is that really expensive, or just hard to get into? Although getting in is so not the point--"

"What is the point, Seth?" Kirsten demanded irritably.

Seth forced himself to focus. "Okay, the point," he answered, "I just want to know . . . you guys have enough money saved so we could afford a really, really, really expensive school, right? Without taking out a second mortgage or one of us selling a kidney on E-bay or something?"

Sandy exchanged a puzzled look with Kirsten. "Right," he confirmed warily. "But why are you asking? And remember, Seth, that money is set aside for your education. Not a new sailboat, or a collection or classic comics, or--"

"I want to give half of my money to Ryan," Seth announced abruptly. His voice was firm, but his eyes were pleading. "Would that be okay? And if I did, would it be, like, enough so he wouldn't have to worry about, you know, working this summer? If he couldn't get a job, I mean?"

Kirsten's eyes widened, and the sharp lines of annoyance that had creased her face vanished. Sitting down next to Seth she asked softly, "Sweetie, what is this all about?"

"Okay." Seth took a deep breath and looked seriously at each of his parents. "Ryan and I did it, Dad. We talked today. I mean, you know, really talked, the way you wanted us to. On the way to the clinic and even—" He winced. "Yeah, even after the whole Attack of the Cohen Mouth incident. And there's a reason Ryan was pushing so hard at rehab, Mom." Kirsten's face clouded again, and Seth explained hastily, "Okay, no, listen, he wasn't being reckless—not on purpose--or, you know, playing Superman or anything like that. It's just . . Ryan's worried that he won't be strong enough to get a construction job this summer."

"Construction?" Sandy repeated dubiously. "Are you sure, Seth? I didn't think Ryan wanted to do that again."

Seth's entire body contorted into a guilty shrug. "Yeah, no, he doesn't. Shit, we know what he wanted--the internship--only I totally fucked that up for him . . . Sorry, Mom. But yeah, I so totally did. Anyway, now Ryan figures he lost a good chance for a scholarship, and he's got to earn a lot of money if he wants to go to college. And he really wants to go to college. So can I?" he finished breathlessly.

"Can you—what?" Kirsten asked.

"Give him my college fund. Or at least half of it," Seth answered restively. "Remember—the whole point of this conversation?"

Kirsten squeezed his hand. "Oh, sweetie," she murmured. "That is the most thoughtful, generous idea you've ever had, and I am so proud of you for even thinking of it." She leaned over and kissed her son's cheek. "No, you can't."

"Thanks, Mom, that's great, because—okay, wait now, what?" Seth's triumphant grin disappeared abruptly, along with his dimples. "No? You're saying no? I can't? Really? Dad?"

Sandy joined his wife and son on the couch. "No," he confirmed. "Seth, I told you, that fund is for your education. Your mother and I can afford college for Ryan without dipping into what we've saved for you."

"Yeah, but no, see, that won't work," Seth argued desperately. "Come on, Dad. The dude's got that whole stubborn pride, independent, do-it-myself—or you know, himself--thing going on. Ryan won't let you guys pay."

Sandy frowned. "Well then, Seth, what makes you believe he'd accept money from you?"

"He won't want to, probably," Seth admitted. "But I think I can convince him to take it because, after all, I kind of . . . owe him. For, well . . . you know. And Ryan understands repaying a debt, so, yeah, I think if I pressure him enough . . ." Seth shrugged miserably, and his eyes shone with unshed tears. "Man," he mumbled, "I thought sure you guys would let me make this right. Because Ryan can't work construction again this summer. I mean, even if he's healed, he can't . . . It wouldn't be fair."

"Seth--" Sandy began.

"No, see, you don't get it, Dad," Seth interjected. "I've been trying to find some way to make it up to him—you know, like helping him get another internship or something like that this summer, but—no luck. And after today . . . God, I've got to do something." He slumped forward and dropped his head into his hands.

Reaching over, Sandy kneaded the back of his son's neck. "I know, son," he said sympathetically. "Lindsay and Summer came to see me this morning. They hoped I might be able to help, maybe come up with some contacts or resources you could use."

"Yeah?" Seth lifted his eyes hopefully.

Sandy shook his head. "Sorry, no. I tried, son, but it's late—the deadline has already passed for everything I could find."

"Shit," Seth moaned, burying his face again.

"Don't say shit, Seth," Kirsten reproved absently. She had been running her fingers through his hair while he spoke to Sandy, but now she sat up, nodding to herself. "You know," she said. "I just might have a solution. It would give Ryan a job this summer and add something significant to his résumé at the same time."

Seth looked up cautiously. "Really, Mom? You do? Because hey, if you can come up with something, I will be your best friend forever, I swear. Name it. Name anything and it shall be yours."

Kirsten's eyes danced. "Be careful what you promise, Seth," she warned, "Because if this works, you'll have to be your grandfather's best friend forever."

"Absolutely, no problem, and . . . hey, say what? Grandpa?" Seth sputtered.

Sandy's expression mirrored Seth's astonishment. "Honey, what are you talking about?"

Kirsten stood up and smoothed out her pants. "Seth, go wash up and get changed. Your father and I need to talk, and then we're going to have a serious discussion with Ryan."

"Mom," Seth wheedled, "Come on—"

She raised her eyebrows in mock-threat. "Out, Seth. Now. Before I unleash the wrath of Eowyn on you. And don't think I can't do it. I read **_The Lord of the Rings_** too, you know."

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Summer flew out her front door, a cell phone pressed to her ear. Oblivious to her surroundings, she skidded to a stop inches from Lindsay, who stumbled out of her way.

"Linds! Sorry!" Summer apologized breathlessly. "I didn't see you. Wow . . . really close call. Oops, wait, speaking of call—"

Lindsay blinked, stunned, as Summer flipped her hair back, and spoke into the phone impatiently. "I'm on my way, Cohen! . . . On my porch okay? Heading for my car . . . I know where it is . . . Okay, I am not talking to you anymore! Not. Talking, Cohen. This is me, not talking now!" She snapped her phone shut, dropped it into her purse, and turned to Lindsay. "So Linds, what's up?" she asked airily.

"Don't you remember? You invited me over," Lindsay stammered. Blushing, she lowered her hand, suddenly aware that it was still raised, ready to knock. "But if something came up . . ."

"Shit, I am so sorry, Lindsay!" Summer exclaimed. She extended her hand dramatically. "Go ahead—slap it. Just slap it. I can't believe I forgot you were coming. God, I am like the worst friend ever."

Lindsay retreated, shaking her head. "Um, Summer? I'm not going to hit you. Besides, it's not a big deal."

"It so totally is," Summer argued. "Girlfriends are just as important as boyfr—as boys. I mean, I do not stand up a friend because some guy calls. Cohen can just manage without me for a change."

"Summer, no, don't change your plans. I mean, Seth's expecting you, right?"

Summer rolled her eyes. "I'm like Cohen's personal 911 service. He's got a shopping emergency, so of course he needs my help." She linked her arm through Lindsay's, propelling her toward the car. "Tell you what, Linds, why don't you come with?"

"I don't know," Lindsay demurred as Summer unlocked the doors. "I mean, maybe you and Seth would like some time alone."

Summer froze, halfway into the driver's seat. "Me? Want time alone with Cohen? I mean, ew!" she protested. "Why would you say that? You must have, like, serious sunstroke or something. Okay, come on, Lindsay. The car is air-conditioned. Maybe it will unfry your brain."

Smiling furtively at Summer's show of indignation, Lindsay slid into the passenger seat. "It's just that lately you seem really involved with Seth," she explained. "I mean, you helped me organize the party—"

"That was for Chino," Summer claimed, pulling out of the driveway. "Well, Cohen too, I suppose. But just because I was getting, like, terminally bored, watching him mope around."

"Then this morning you went with me to see Sandy. That was for Seth."

Summer flounced in her seat. "I just wanted to see Sandy's office, all right?"

"Okay," Lindsay said doubtfully. "But just now you forgot I was coming over . . . "

"Because Cohen kept babbling at me, and my brain shut down in self-defense!"

"And you're going shopping with him. . ."

"Just because he's, like, totally helpless, and I suppose sort of a friend, in a weird Cohen-y way, and I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm just a really nice person that's all!"

"Yeah, you are, Summer. But . . ." Lindsay's voice trailed off quizzically.

"But what?" Summer cut into another lane, honking her horn at the driver she passed. "God!" she muttered. "Some people cannot drive . . . That guy couldn't have been doing more than, like, the speed limit. Anyway, 'but' what, Linds? And remember, I'm driving here. Don't say anything that's gonna make me throw up."

Lindsay inclined her head apologetically. "Well, it just seems like maybe . . . you and Seth are . . . getting, you know, close again," she suggested. "Of course, I know you're still going out with Zach . . ."

"Actually . . ." Summer took a deep breath. "I'm not."

"You're not?"

"Not anymore." Summer smoothed her hair self-consciously. "Listen, Linds, Zach called last night, and we talked, and . . . we realized that, well, we like each other as friends. Just friends. So . . . it's over." She shrugged. "No tears, no trauma. It's not like I have to buy new shoes to console myself or anything."

"Oh," Lindsay breathed. She glanced at Summer, puzzled. "Why didn't you tell me when I saw you this morning?"

Summer grimaced wryly. "Because, well, I didn't want you to think that my breaking up with Zach had anything to do with Cohen."

"Right." Lindsay nodded sagely. "Because . . . it doesn't."

"Absolutely not," Summer insisted, with a determined bob of her head. "I mean, it doesn't much. Well, hardly at all . . . Look, Linds, Cohen is still an ass, all right? Just because he's been acting less assy than usual lately doesn't mean I want to get back together or anything."

"Uh-huh," Lindsay murmured. Hastily, she covered her mouth and turned to look out the window, but a small chuckle escaped anyway.

"Lindsay Gardner!" Summer scowled fiercely. "Are you laughing at me? You better not be laughing at me!"

Lindsay collapsed into a fit of giggles. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "Summer, really, I'm not laughing at you. Well, I guess I am, but honestly, I think it's great. I mean, I feel bad for Zach, but you and Seth . . ."

"Oh, go ahead and laugh," Summer sighed. "Me and Cohen . . . we are sort of a cosmic joke. I can't believe I may be about to give him another chance. God, I really do deserve a new pair of shoes! Hmm," she mused, "Maybe after we finish Cohen's shopping . . ."

Lindsay settled back in her seat, still smiling. "Sure," she agreed. "So where are we going anyway? And why does Seth need you this time?"

Summer grinned smugly. "For my expertise. Cohen is so absolutely clueless about this kind of shopping. We are going," she announced, "to a sporting goods store."

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"Ryan?" Sandy knocked, then ducked his head inside Ryan's door. "Are you busy right now, kid?"

"No. Just reading," Ryan answered. He put his book aside and sat up straight, bracing himself for the talk he knew had to be coming.

"Great. So could you come to my office with me for a minute?"

Despite Sandy's casual tone, Ryan tensed, wondering what kind of lecture required a special setting. It had to be something major—or maybe something legal. Maybe the guy from the clinic had called. Maybe he wanted to sue.

Shit, Ryan thought, what if that was it, and his stupid temper was going to cost the Cohens more money?

Anxiously, he grabbed his crutch and started down the hall, gritting his teeth.

"Hey, Ryan. Relax," Sandy urged, noticing a muscle jumping in the boy's jaw. "We're not walking the green mile here. There are just a few things we need to go over, together." He put a reassuring hand on Ryan's back and steered him into the office.

Ryan nodded tersely, unconvinced. He was about to sit down when Kirsten entered the room, carrying a tray with ice tea. Automatically, he moved to help her, but then he flinched and pulled back.

"Kirsten," he began. He took a deep breath, shifting awkwardly on his crutch. "About before . . . I don't know what to say. I'm just . . . I'm really sorry that I upset you."

"Oh, sweetie." Kirsten set down the tray. She came over and tilted Ryan's face so she could kiss his cheek. "I'm sorry too."

He gave a guarded smile. "Then it's okay?" he asked warily. "I mean, we're okay?"

"We're fine," Kirsten said. "Seth explained a few things to us."

"Seth . . . explained?" Ryan echoed. His gaze flitted from Kirsten over to Sandy. "What did Seth tell you exactly? And why are we . . . here?"

Sandy pulled a chair in front of his desk and beckoned for Ryan to sit. "Because here, kid, is where we keep all of our important papers. And there are some we'd like to go over with you."

"Okay." There were a hundred questions in Ryan's voice. He took the glass Kirsten handed him and wrapped his hands around it, grateful to have something to hold on to.

Sandy removed some papers from a portfolio and started to turn them around so that Ryan could read them.

"Wait, sweetheart," Kirsten objected. She perched on the edge of the desk, covering the papers with her hand. "First, Ryan, we need to make something clear," she said firmly. "Sandy and I respect you. We respect your independence and your sense of responsibility. Those are wonderful qualities, and we really hope some of them rub off on Seth. So we're not trying to undermine that at all--"

Ryan tightened his grip on his glass. "He told you what I said about college, didn't he?"

"Yes, kid, he did," Sandy confirmed. "The question is, why didn't you tell us that you were so worried about it?"

"Because . . ." Ryan faltered, remembering his conversation with Lindsay. "Because I wanted to handle it myself," he admitted.

"You don't have to do that, though, Ryan," Kirsten objected. "You've got us, remember?"

Ryan closed his eyes for a moment before he nodded. "I know. It's just . . . I never want to take advantage of you. Or take you for granted. You guys are so generous. I don't even think you know just how . . . good . . . you are." He shrugged ruefully. "Man, I can never explain what I mean. Where's Seth when you need him?"

"No, Ryan, I think we understand," Kirsten said. "So can we just do this? Sandy and I . . . well, we've done some things, made some decisions, and we want to explain them to you. Then you can tell us how you feel about them. And if they truly bother you . . . well, we'll try to work out a compromise."

Sandy grinned and took Kirsten's hand. "Try, being the operative word here, kid. Because I'll warn you right now, the final decision is ours. We're still the adults in this room."

"Okay," Ryan agreed, a little hoarsely.

"Good." Sandy took a deep breath and slid the papers out from under Kirsten's hand, moving them closer to Ryan. "So, this is information about your trust fund."

Ryan had started to reach for the pages, but he jerked back, startled. "My what?"

"Your trust fund," Kirsten explained. "One part is designated for college, and you can access that when you enroll. But you won't be able to touch the rest until you're twenty-two, Ryan. And don't even think about buying a private jet or anything like that, because it's not that much money. It's just kind of . . . a buffer . . . to help when you start your career."

Ryan bit his lip, touching the cover sheet cautiously. "I don't get it," he confessed. "This . . . why would you do this?"

"Because we did it for Seth," Sandy answered simply. "And you're our son too."

Ryan caught his breath, unsure what to say. Numbly, he scanned the papers. "Wait . . . this date." He glanced up, startled. "You deposited money in here the same month I began living with you."

Kirsten nodded. "We set up the trust right after we became your legal guardians."

"But . . . why?" Ryan asked. "I mean, you didn't even know me really."

"There was a lot we didn't know about you," Sandy clarified. He grinned, adding playfully, "That's probably still true, because you, kid? Play things pretty damn close to the vest. But we do know you, Ryan. Otherwise, we never would have asked you to join our family."

"And this is only money," Kirsten pointed out gently. "It's just a way for us to invest in your future."

Ryan swallowed hard. "Yeah, but, an investment . . . when you do that, you expect some sort of return, right? It's not money you just throw away."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Sandy replied, raising his eyebrows. "We definitely expect a return."

"Good. Yeah, great." Ryan sighed with relief. "Because I can't take this if I don't give it back. Only, it'll take a long time . . . "

"Not that kind of return, kid. Kirsten and I aren't interested in having you repay any of the money."

"Then what?" Ryan asked helplessly.

Kirsten covered his hand with hers. "We get to come to your commencement, sweetie. And we get to sit in the seats reserved for your family, and take at least four dozen pictures."

"And cheer like idiots when your name is announced," Sandy continued.

"Well, Sandy and Seth will do that. I won't embarrass you, Ryan," Kirsten promised. "I'll just clap proudly."

"And we get to elbow the people around us and point and say, 'See him? The good-looking one over there staring at his feet? That's our son.'"

Kirsten's hand tightened on Ryan's. "So, sweetie. Now you know what we want. It's your turn. Do you have any questions? Anything you want to say?"

Overwhelmed, Ryan gazed from Sandy to Kirsten. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice husky and uncertain. He coughed, and tried again. "Thank you. This is . . . you are . . . amazing."

"That's it?" Sandy laughed. "No protests? No argument? How hard did that guy at the clinic hit you, kid?"

"Don't you make fun of him, Sanford Cohen," Kirsten warned.

Ryan smiled at them gratefully. "I really . . . I love you guys. And . . ." He raised his chin. "I'll accept this, as long as I can contribute too."

"Ah, see, honey," Sandy teased. "I knew there would be a condition."

Kirsten swatted her husband as she took a square envelope out of a folder. "Behave yourself, Sandy," she scolded. "And Ryan, we thought you might feel that way. Now, this is just an option. You don't have to do it if you don't want to, but, well . . . " Nervously, Kirsten placed the envelope in Ryan's hands. "It's an invitation to dinner with my father. Ryan, he'd like you to do some work for the Newport Group."

TBC


	26. Chapter 26

**Collision Course 24**

Kirsten balanced a tray laden with coffee and assorted breakfast food outside Seth's bedroom door. After her third knock he finally peered out, blinking in bleary-eyed confusion at the food.

"Room service, Mom?" he yawned. "It's this, like, a trick, or something?" His eyes widened and he scanned the hallway suspiciously. "Am I being punked?"

"You look like a punk," Kirsten teased, rumpling her son's unkempt hair. "And no. I just felt like feeding my guys this morning, that's all." Seth squinted at the tray, sniffing it audibly and she warned, "Don't be cute, mister. I didn't cook anything."

"Ah," Seth dimpled and kissed Kirsten on the cheek. "Well then it's safe. And, you know, can't help the cute. It's genetic. But thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome. I think."

Laughing to herself, Kirsten returned to the kitchen and filled a tray for Ryan. She paused outside his room, preparing to knock, when she heard a muffled cry inside and a heavy thud. Immediately she dropped everything she was carrying, stepping over the debris as she fumbled with the doorknob.

"Ryan? What happened? What's wrong?"

Ryan peered up from the floor where he was wrestling his crutch from under the bed. "Nothing," he replied with a sheepish half-smile. "I just dropped the damn thing. And then I accidentally kicked it—well, maybe not so accidentally. I really, really hate this crutch. Don't think it likes me much either."

"But you're all right?" Kirsten demanded breathlessly. "You're not hurt?"

"I'm fine." Ryan's embarrassed expression changed to concern. "But you're shaking, Kirsten. Here, sit down." He hopped over and took Kirsten's arm gently, leading her to the bed. "You want me to call Sandy? Are you sick?"

Kirsten shook her head. She clutched Ryan's hand, her fingers digging into his flesh so that he winced and tried to loosen her grip.

"Kirsten, you're really scaring me."

"I'm sorry," she gasped, catching her breath while Ryan watched anxiously. Then she managed a tremulous smile, gesturing toward the spilled contents of the breakfast tray. "Look at the mess I made . . . Twice in one week. No one would ever believe I took deportment classes. It's just that when I heard that sound, the crash--" She shuddered and Ryan slipped a supportive arm around her shoulders.

"It wasn't a crash, Kirsten." Ryan hesitated and asked slowly, "Is that what it sounded like to you?"

Kirsten nodded. "It was just so sudden. And loud . . ."

"Hey." Seth poked his head in the door and then ambled all the way into the room, juggling an orange and an apple. "Look what I found trying to make a bold escape down the hallway. I'm not missing a good food fight in here, am I?" His tone grew more subdued when he registered Kirsten's obvious agitation. "What's going on?"

Shaking his head slightly, Ryan raised his eyes to meet Seth's. "Your mom dropped the tray when she heard my crutch fall. The noise startled her, I guess."

"Yeah?" Seth sat down on the other side of Kirsten, letting the fruit roll onto the bed so that he could pat her shoulder. "Is that it, Mom? You okay?"

"Of course," Kirsten claimed, attempting to relax. "Boys, you're sweet to be worried, but really, I'm fine. Just a little on edge."

Seth frowned. "You weren't when you came to my room," he recalled. "You were all June Cleaver there."

"Well, June Cleaver got clumsy. She just hasn't had her coffee yet."

Ryan rubbed Kirsten's arm as he started to get up. "Seth, why don't you stay with your mom? I'll clean that stuff up."

"No!" she ordered, clutching at him. "Ryan, I'll do it."

Sitting back down, Ryan shrugged a helpless appeal to Seth who nodded and waved at the overturned tray.

"Yeah, Mom, let's just wait on that, okay?" he suggested. "See, I think you're more than a little on edge. I think you're a lot on edge. Or maybe, I don't know, off the edge completely. Like, over the side and hanging on to a tree limb to keep from falling, the way cartoon characters do." Sliding off bed, Seth knelt in front of Kirsten and folded his hands over hers, which still held tightly to one of Ryan's. His voice softened. "Are you still upset about the clinic, Mom? Because Ryan and I are really sorry we acted like idiots there."

"Oh, sweetie, no, that's not it, honestly. It was just the crash . . . and then it sounded like you were hurt, Ryan . . ."

Ryan glanced at Seth, whose expression of uneasy confusion reflected his own. "I'm fine," he insisted, shifting closer to Kirsten. "I was just being stupid, yelling at my crutch. Look, I thought you . . . things . . . were better. If this is still about the accident . . ."

Kirsten's eyes flooded with sudden tears. "I should have been watching the road," she moaned. "I never should have looked away. If I'd just been paying attention--"

"Kirsten, don't," Ryan pleaded. "It wasn't your fault. You've got to stop doing this to yourself. Seth, you were there. Tell her."

"Yeah, I was there," Seth recalled somberly. "And I've gotta say, Mom, it was a little bit your fault."

"Seth!" Ryan jerked upright, shocked, and he felt Kirsten stiffen under his arm.

"No, man, seriously. You don't like lying? Well, then, let's tell the truth," Seth urged. "It was a little bit Mom's fault because, yeah, she should have had her eyes on the road."

His eyes flashed a challenge to Ryan who conceded unwillingly, "Okay. Maybe. But Kirsten, honestly, it was more my fault. I was riding too fast, and not looking where I was going."

Seth nodded. "That's true, dude. And really. . . " he swallowed hard, "the whole thing was my fault too. A lot actually, because I shouldn't have let you leave when you were so upset, and the whole thing wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been a selfish ass anyway. So maybe, Mom, if you spread the blame around to everybody who deserves some, it won't be so hard to handle. What do you think?" Seth ducked his head to peer earnestly into his mother's eyes and then looked over at Ryan. "Do I make any sense?"

"Hardly ever," Ryan replied with a ragged smile. "But this time, yeah, I think you do."

"Ha! See that, Mom?" Seth jostled her arm in appeal. "Even Ryan believes you should listen to me."

"This time," Ryan clarified with a half-hearted humor. "I'm not saying she should make it a habit."

"Right. It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience." Seth grinned, trying to prompt an answering smile from his mother. When Kirsten just bit her lip silently, he tapped Ryan's arm and mouthed, "Tag in, bro."

Ryan nodded. "Seth's right, Kirsten. We all fu—messed up. So how about it?" he prompted. "If you can't stop feeling guilty, why don't you share the blame with us? Some to Seth, some to me, a little left over for you . . .?"

Seth unfolded himself and sat next to Kirsten again. "Just remember, Mom," he advised in a loud stage whisper, "give most of it to Ryan. He's got the muscles to handle it. Me, really not so much for the heavy lifting."

Kirsten caught her breath, her gaze traveling anxiously between the boys. When Seth wiggled his eyebrows and Ryan rolled his eyes, the tension in her body finally dissolved.

"You two," she breathed, with a shaky smile. "I don't stand a chance when you join forces, do I?"

Seth shimmied his shoulders. "Nope," he agreed blithely. "That's because we're irresistible."

"One of us is anyway," Ryan amended, completely deadpan. "And the other one tries really, really hard."

"Hey!" Seth protested. "That is just . . . wait a minute. Okay, dude, the way you said that, I'm not sure . . . Should I be offended or flattered?"

Kirsten laughed fondly and squeezed both their hands. "So we're all in this together?"

"Absolutely," Ryan replied. "So we've divided up the blame. Now all we need to do is get back on the horse--"

Seth interrupted with a shrill whinnying whistle. "Wait a minute! What horse? The only one around here is Captain Oats, and we would seriously crush him, dude."

Ryan groaned. "It's a metaphor, Seth."

Seth dimpled. "It's a cliché, Ryan."

"Yeah, right, whatever," Ryan conceded, rolling his eyes. "The point is to get past all this. So I'll get back on my bike--" Kirsten flashed a stern frown, and he added hastily, "as soon as the doctor says it's okay, I mean. And Kirsten, you'll get back behind the wheel."

"I don't know." Kirsten shrugged apologetically. "I realize that I should, but . . . It's just so hard."

"Okay, then how about this?" Seth suggested. "You take as much time to, you know, get over the accident as Ryan does. But when he gets the okay to ride his bike, you try driving again."

Ryan nodded his agreement. "That sounds reasonable, doesn't it, Kirsten?" He added slyly, "Of course, we don't want to put pressure on you. Because I have it on good authority: you shouldn't rush the rehab."

"Smartass!" Kirsten laughed. "Just for that, I'll do it. You get on your bike, I'll get in the driver's seat."

Seth rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. "Okay. Now we have a plan. I love a good plan. Ryan gets back on the bike, Mom gets back behind the wheel, I . . . what do I do?"

Kirsten looked helplessly at both boys. "I don't know. Ryan, what does Seth do?"

"Seth," Ryan said solemnly, "gets far, far away from other people's answering machines. And stays away."

He glared at Seth, who looked abashed, but then one side of Ryan's mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. Seth dimpled, relieved. "I can do that, dude," he promised. "I can totally do that."

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Caleb's office door opened without warning, and he swiveled from his computer, clearly annoyed. "Sanford," he pronounced grimly as Sandy strolled in. "This is . . . unexpected."

Sandy grinned and poured himself a cup of coffee before sprawling into a chair. "I think the expression is supposed to be 'this is an unexpected pleasure'."

"That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" Caleb retorted icily. "Exactly how did you get past my secretary, by the way? She knows that I don't see anyone unannounced."

"Afraid you've got your own sweet disposition to blame for that," Sandy drawled. He loosened his tie, making himself comfortable. "I just reminded her that your door is always open for family. That's true, isn't it, Dad?" He stirred his coffee, letting the ironic echo of the last word linger in the air.

Irritated, Caleb shut down his monitor and pushed back from his desk. "Do you have a point, Sanford, or did you just come here to bait me? Because I know the concept may be foreign to you, but I do have a business to run."

"Now, see," Sandy mused. "That is the Caleb Nichol I know and . . . well, the one that I know. This one on the other hand?" He opened his briefcase and removed Ryan's dinner invitation, tossing it on Caleb's desk. "I don't believe we've ever met. Mind explaining this to me, Cal?"

Caleb flicked the envelope back to Sandy dismissively. "What exactly do you find confusing, Sanford?" he sneered. "I thought the wording was self-explanatory. Besides, Kiki could fill in the details for you. She and I discussed this venture at length, and I let her decide whether or not to enlist Ryan's participation."

"She told me that," Sandy admitted. "I just want to be sure that you and Kirsten understand the project the same way. She thinks you hope the youth center will rehabilitate the Newport Group's image—make the company seem involved with the community and interested in something besides profits."

"And that's true," Caleb confirmed. He laced his fingers together, glancing pointedly at his watch in the process.

Sandy smiled wryly. "Right. Time is money," he observed. "Don't worry, Cal, I'll be brief. I understand your motivation for doing the project. That's business—self-serving, a little misleading, but hey, I don't mind. Not when we wind up with a youth center. But here's what worries me: your desire to involve Ryan in the deal."

"What's wrong with that?" Caleb demanded. "Kiki thinks it's a great idea."

"Of course she does. That's because Kirsten believes that you honestly want to improve your relationship with our boys. She thinks she finally convinced you to accept Ryan as a part of your family."

Tapping a knuckle against his mouth, Caleb studied Sandy's expression. "But you don't agree," he concluded.

"I'm a lawyer, Cal. You want me to believe you? Show me the evidence."

Caleb raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the invitation. "There it is, Sanford. Call it evidence, or an olive branch. Call it a white flag, if you like. Whether you choose to believe it or not, I want to get to know the real Ryan, and this project gives me an opportunity to do just that." His lips quirked sardonically. "I hardly think I can go the bonding-over-baseball-games route at my age."

"Soccer."

"Pardon me?"

"Ryan plays soccer."

"Fine. Soccer." Caleb shrugged. "Does it really matter?"

Sandy retrieved the invitation and returned it to his briefcase. "It does if you want to get to know him," he said shrewdly. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. "Things are good at home right now, Cal—better than they have been in weeks. My family is finding its way back together. And now the prospect that you might actually accept Ryan? You have no idea what that means to your daughter. I suspect that Ryan has some misgivings, but he won't admit them—at least not to Kirsten or me. He would do anything for her, Cal. And since he knows she wants peace between the two of you, he's accepting your invitation."

Caleb nodded, just once. "I'm glad to hear it."

"I'm sure you are. And I really hope Kirsten is right about your motives." Sandy stood up, returning his coffee cup to the tray next to Caleb's desk. "But in case she's not, remember our little conversation at your party, Cal. I won't tolerate you hurting my family," he warned. "Not in any way. Just keep that in mind. Oh—and see about getting some better coffee in your office. This? Really is not very good."

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"It's open," Ryan called, when he heard someone tap at his door.

The knock sounded again, a little louder and more erratic.

"Seth, just come in. I never memorized your Super-Secret Seth Spy knock, so you're not being stealth. Plus, we're not eight, remember?"

No one answered or entered, but when he glanced over, Ryan saw a flutter of white as someone slipped a note under the door. Suspicious, he picked up the paper between his thumb and index finger, holding it away from his body as he opened it.

"Come to the pool house," the message read cryptically. To Ryan's surprise, the handwriting belonged to Lindsay. "The pool house," he murmured, smiling to himself. "Yeah, why not?" He ran his fingers through his hair, straightened the shirt over his wifebeater, and headed out, wondering hopefully whether Lindsay had gotten hungry for her edible finger-paints.

As Ryan crossed the patio, though, his footsteps gradually slowed, and his eager anticipation began to dissipate. If Lindsay was waiting for him, he realized, she wasn't alone. The pool house door stood ajar, and low-pitched voices drifted out. Ducking to one side, Ryan paused, listening, and feeling uncomfortably like an eavesdropping Seth.

"I don't know, Cohen," Summer was complaining. "Is this the best you can do? It's not realistic. It should be a whole lot dorkier."

"Dorkier?" Seth protested. "This is not supposed to be dorky, thank you very much. This is classic Seth Cohen. Anyway, why should I listen to you? You have no taste, you know that, Summer?"

"I guess I can't argue with that. After all, I did go out with you," Summer retorted.

"Yeah, only see, that was the exception that proves the rule," Seth declared smugly. "And give me back that marker, woman. That's permanent, and you're going to ruin all my fine work—"

Lindsay's fierce whisper cut them off. "Seth, hurry up and finish!" she hissed. "He'll be here any minute!"

Ryan sighed; apparently edible finger-paints weren't in his immediate future. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his crutch and used it to push the door completely open, although he remained a safe distance outside.

"Dude!" Seth cried, waving expansively. "Great, you're here. Well, I mean, obviously you know that you're here. Except yeah, really not here here, since you're standing all the way out there. Adalente, buddy. Wilkommen! Entrez. Come on in."

Squinting suspiciously, Ryan took a single step closer. "Yeah, I don't know about that," he demurred.

"Ryan! Get in here right now," Lindsay urged. She took his hand, and gently pulled him inside, angling him to his left at the same time.

"Surprise!" Seth caroled.

"Surprise," Summer echoed. "And for the record, Chino, this was all Cohen's idea."

Seth bobbed his head in excitement. "Thank you, Summer. I appreciate credit where credit is due. So, what do you think, Ryan? You like it?" He proudly indicated a punching bag set up in a corner of the room. It was topped with black yarn curls, and on it Seth had drawn a caricature of himself, smiling cheekily and wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed, "Hit me. I'm talking." "Okay, so, not my best work, I know, but I didn't have much time. And certain people here, who shall remain nameless, but not seasonless, kept giving me unwanted advice."

"Hey!" Summer protested. "You asked for my advice, Cohen!"

"On which one I should buy, not on the design," Seth argued. He posed next to the bag, duplicating its toothy grin. "I call it 'Surrogate Seth.' Sir Seth for short and also because, hey, I've always wanted to be a knight. What do you say, Ryan? Is it me?"

"It would have looked more like Cohen with steel wool hair, right Chino? That yarn is too soft and manageable."

Seth patted his own head defensively. "Do not mock the Jewfro, Summer . . . Come on, Ryan. Say something."

Still holding Lindsay's hand, Ryan circled the bag critically, eyes raking it up and down, a small smile playing surreptitiously around his lips. "Oh yeah," he agreed. "It's you, Seth. Definitely." He jabbed the cartoon's jaw, letting the follow-through swing toward Seth who flinched and hopped away.

"Okay, so here's the thing, Ryan. Punch the bag, not the person," Seth instructed. "See, that's the whole point. Sir Seth here may look mild-mannered, but he is Uruk-hai tough. And best of all, no arms, so he'll never punch back."

"Huh," Summer scoffed. "That wasn't a punch! That was a barely a poke. Aren't you going to hit it, Chino?" She bounced on her toes, feinting left and right, fists cocked. "I mean, hit it hard. Think of everything Seth has ever done to piss you off and just, boom, let him have it!"

Seth hugged the punching bag protectively. "Don't worry, I won't let her hurt you," he whispered. "Listen, Summer, I don't think Ryan needs a motivational seminar here. And also, really, don't say piss."

"Pfft," Summer snorted, with a back-handed wave. "Come on, Chino. We've got gloves—well, for you one glove, I guess. Show us how you can throw down. Because if you don't, I will. And I know Lindsay wants a shot at Surrogate Seth too."

Lindsay's eyes gleamed. "Yeah," she admitted, smiling with predatory anticipation. "I kind of do. This will be fun."

"Um . . . okay, ladies, this much enthusiasm? I gotta say, really not so flattering," Seth observed, wincing empathetically as both girls nudged the punching bag.

"Aw, Cohen," Summer teased, revving up for an uppercut. "This should be a dream come true for you. You've finally got a body women can't keep their hands off of."

Seth caught her arm in mid-swing. "Ryan, stop them," he pleaded.

Ryan nodded. "Don't worry dude, I've got it . . . Ladies, wait your turn," he growled. "My bag. My orc-baiting, answer-machine erasing, private conversation-blabbing, quasi-brother, best friend. I get first punch."

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Sandy sat on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, flipping through TV channels when a hand reached from behind him and removed the remote. Then lips nuzzled his ear, as Kirsten whispered, "Can't you think of anything better to do with your time, Mr. Cohen?"

"Something better than **_Dancing with the Stars_**?" Sandy asked innocently, pulling her hand to his mouth and kissing her palm. "I don't know about that."

"We could practice our own version of the tango," Kirsten suggested. "My Yogalates class left me feeling very . . . limber."

As if to prove it, she rolled over the back of the couch and wedging herself beside Sandy.

"Ah," he drawled, pulling her close. "So you enjoyed yourself at the spa?"

Kirsten laughed softly. "Actually yes." She picked up Sandy's hand, playing with his fingers. "It felt good to do something . . . well, normal, again. I didn't even mind riding with Julie. It's strange, you know, sweetheart? She's become almost a real friend."

"Almost?"

"Well, she still is Julie. And God help me, my mother-in-law." Kirsten gave a wry shudder. ""So I have to take everything she says with enough salt to raise my blood pressure . . . Oh, and speaking of blood pressure, Sandy, how did it go with my father today?"

Sandy shrugged. "All right, I suppose. . ." he began, before catching himself. "Wait a minute, Kirsten. I never told you I was going to see Caleb."

Kirsten shook her head with fond exasperation. "You didn't have to, Sandy. When I explained that he wanted to invite Ryan to help with the youth center, I could tell that you had all kinds of doubts. So I assumed that the first chance you got, you'd confront him about it."

"Confront?" Sandy echoed defensively. "I wouldn't describe our conversation that way." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Of course, your father might. But, honey, can you blame me for being suspicious? This is Caleb Nichol we're talking about."

"Sandy!" Kirsten reproved. Then she sighed ruefully and admitted, "Actually, no. I love my father, but I don't blame you. So what do you think now that you've had your . . . conversation. Is dad sincere about wanting to get to know Ryan?"

Sandy's brows furrowed. "Honestly?" he mused. "I think he is telling the truth. Just maybe not the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

Kirsten tightened her fingers around Sandy's anxiously. "So you think I shouldn't have given Ryan Dad's invitation? Should we tell him not to go?"

"I think," Sandy said slowly, "that nobody needs to make Ryan's decision for him. He already said yes." Kirsten's eyes widened in surprised alarm, and Sandy squeezed her hand soothingly. "Sweetheart, don't worry. Ryan's a smart kid, and frankly, your father underestimates him. Let's not to do the same thing."

"But I just wanted him to consider it. If he doesn't really want to do it . . . if he only accepted as a favor to me, or out of some sense of obligation . . ." Kirsten argued uneasily.

"Obligation is Ryan's middle name," Sandy observed with a rueful grin. "That's not going to change overnight. We'll just let him know that if Caleb insults him or makes him uncomfortable, he can come home and forget the whole thing. No harm, no foul."

Kirsten nodded and dropped her head onto Sandy's shoulder. "No harm," she murmured. "God, I hope not."

"No more worrying, honey. How about. . .?" Sandy leaned down and began to hum in Kirsten's ear.

"Sanford Cohen! What are you doing?"

"Providing the music for our special tango," Sandy explained. "Let's see just how limber you really are."

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Seth flopped comfortably on the bed in the pool house, watching as Ryan jabbed the punching bag a final time and began to towel off. "Man," he breathed, sighing with apparent exhaustion, "I don't mind telling you, bro, that? Was one major workout."

Skeptical blue eyes peered above the white terry cloth. "You didn't do anything, Seth," Ryan said, finger-combing his disheveled hair.

"Didn't do anything?" Seth protested self-righteously. "Who held the bag for you, Ryan? Who walked the girls to their car? Who brought you that nice, icy bottle of water, and even unscrewed the cap? Wait! Was that . . . yes it was. Me."

"Ah, right," Ryan drawled, raising one eyebrow. "Yeah, that was some hard-core exertion. No wonder you're tired."

"Damn straight," Seth agreed. He scooted to the edge of the bed and sat up. "Seriously, Ryan, you feel any better? I mean, did Sir Seth help you get some things out of your system? 'Cause I just thought maybe . . ." He rapped his knuckles against his own jaw. "You could use a non-breakable outlet, you know?"

Ryan blew into his fist and then shook out his hand. "I know," he admitted. "Surrogate Seth is terrific, man. Thanks." Grinning impishly, Ryan flung his sweaty towel over Seth's head.

"Dude!" Seth yelped. "This is thanks? In the immortal words of Summer Roberts . . . ew!" He wrestled the towel off his face, then raced over the mirror, frantically patting his hair back into place.

Ryan drained his water bottle and wiped his mouth before he tossed the towel into the hamper. He sat down, easing his injured leg onto the ottoman. "Speaking of Summer," he said casually, "any new developments, Seth? I mean, since she kissed you the other night?"

Seth stopped repositioning his curls. He pivoted away from the mirror, his expression incredulous. "You're asking?"

Ryan lifted one shoulder. "I'm asking."

"So you won't mind me talking about Summer?" Ryan glared and Seth backpedaled slightly. "Right, yeah, no, obviously you won't mind since you brought up the subject. Well then, as a matter of fact, yes, there is breaking news. Summer and Zach . . . are you ready, Ryan? Because this is huge. Okay, maybe not so much huge for you, but potentially Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon ginormous for me . . ."

"Seth."

"Right. So. Summer and Zack broke up."

Ryan leaned forward, his eyes widening. "They did?"

"They did," Seth confirmed. "Summer mentioned it while she was styling Sir Seth's hair. She just kind of dropped it, all offhand, into the conversation. She and Zach aren't going to date anymore. They've decided they'd rather just be friends."

Ryan cocked his head. "Interesting," he observed.

Seth plopped onto the top step and hugged his knees. "Now see," he grinned, "I've totally missed that, dude. That Ryan Atwood cut-to-the-chase insight . . . No, I mean it," he insisted, when Ryan rolled his eyes ironically. "It really is interesting. You think so too, right?" Ryan darted another admonishing glare, prompting Seth to add hastily, "And again, yes you do, because you already said so. Asked and answered, in Sandy Cohen legal-speak, which means move on counselor, you're wasting the court's time."

He paused for breath and Ryan's mouth quirked. "It sounds hopeful, Seth."

"Hopeful. Fuck, yes, that's what it is. It's hopeful, Ryan. I am chockfull of hope. Yeah, so, right, then what do you think I should do next?" Seth bounced eagerly, eyes alight with ideas. "Do you think I should--?"

Ryan raised a commanding hand. "No."

"No?" Seth parroted, confused. "No what, bro? I didn't tell you what I was planning."

"It was going to be some grand gesture, right? Maybe a hot air balloon ride over a beach where you spelled out 'I love you' in seashells? Or hiring a plane to fly a banner that says, 'Summer please take me back'?"

Seth's mouth opened, snapped closed and opened again. "I wasn't . . . Well, yeah, maybe, but not . . . okay, I was," he stammered. "You know, those are really good ideas, Ryan."

"They're terrible ideas, Seth."

"Exactly. That's what I meant. Terrible ideas. Awful. Four thousand degrees of bad. Because what I really should do is . . ." Seth waited, beckoning with both hands.

"Take it slow," Ryan advised. "Let Summer know you want her back—in case she's the only person in Newport who didn't get the memo—and then just . . . find out how she feels. What she wants to do."

Seth rose and started to pace thoughtfully. "How she feels," he mused. "What she wants. You know, you should grow a beard, Ryan. You are very wise."

"Glad you finally noticed," Ryan smirked. "Okay, if that's settled, I'm going to get something to eat."

Before he could push himself up, Seth urged him back with a hand on his shoulder. "Wait, Ryan. Can I ask a question?"

Ryan glanced at his watch. "You're on golden time here, dude."

"And I don't have the slightest idea what that means. But anyway . . . how do you feel about my grandfather's invitation? I know you accepted, but really . . . why the hell, man?"

Startled, Ryan narrowed his eyes. "You don't want to talk about Summer anymore?"

"Yeah, well, always," Seth admitted. "But come on, buddy, don't you think we spent enough time on me? I mean, I know I'm fascinating, but you have totally got to learn to talk about other subjects." He smiled at Ryan's bewilderment before continuing gravely, "Anyway, this business about dinner at the Haunted House . . . I don't know, Ryan. You really want to go?"

"No," Ryan confessed. "Not really. But I'm not going just for dinner. Seth. It's for the youth center. And, well, your mom is really excited about it."

"Yeah, but see, that's not a good reason to get involved, Ryan. Seriously, it's not. Not if you don't want to do it." Ryan cocked his head wryly, and Seth gave an embarrassed grin. "Okay, yeah, I know. I may have, on occasion—on, like, every occasion--tried to talk you into things you didn't want to do. But I have learned, my friend. No more. And Mom will totally understand if you decide to bail . . ."

Ryan recalled the shabby playgrounds of his childhood, the ill-equipped rec center that he and Trey had rejected in favor of neighborhood bars, the street corners where he had hung out, always on guard, but unwilling to go home. "It's okay, Seth. I want to do it," he said. Then he added honestly, "And also, kind of, I don't. It's just . . . If it meant working with anybody else, I'd think it was a great idea."

"Ah, but it means working Lex Luthor himself. Catwoman too, probably," Seth predicted, shuddering. "Even with your superpowers, dude, they can be a very dangerous team."

Ryan rubbed his brace absently. "You don't trust your grandfather, Seth?"

"I did not say that, dude," Seth objected, palms raised in denial. "I trust him to do many things. Make money. Annoy my dad. Insult my manly physique . . . mostly by saying it's not manly. Or a physique. I even trust him to do the right thing for the wrong reasons. It's just . . . I can't figure out why he's suddenly hanging out a 'Welcome, Ryan,' sign. So . . . shit, I don't know. That's why I thought, maybe . . . Ryan, do you want me to come with?"

"What? To dinner on Friday? You can't, Seth. You've got the comic book trade show."

Seth studied the toes of his shoes. "I could skip it," he offered. "If you want me around as, I don't know, back-up . . . It's no big deal, Ryan."

"I thought it was," Ryan argued. "Aren't you scheduled to present your ideas to some publishers?"

"Yeah," Seth confirmed with feigned nonchalance. "But hey, Ryan, what are the odds they'd be interested anyway?" He swallowed hard and repeated weakly, "It's no big deal."

Ryan looked at Seth for a long moment before he spoke, his voice quietly respectful. "You don't have to come with me, Seth. But the fact that you offered—that is a big deal. Thank you."


	27. Chapter 25

Collision Course 25 

"Come on, die already!"

At the bottom of the stairs, Seth stumbled to a halt, his hands full of comic book prototypes that he was taking to the trade show. His abrupt stop spilled them to the floor, and he picked them up as he listened.

"Ha! I knew I'd get you. Now I just need the key . . . "

Squinting curiously, Seth put his drawings on a table and followed his mother's voice into the living room. Kirsten was sitting on the couch, her head bowed in concentration, blowing fierce puffs of air through her clenched teeth. Silently, Seth padded behind her and leaned over her shoulder.

"A GameBoy, Mom? You're playing with a GameBoy?"

With a guilty start, Kirsten crammed her controller between the seat cushions. She settled back primly, folding her hands on her lap like a reprimanded schoolgirl. "Seth," she began, with a flustered smile, "don't be silly. I wasn't . . ."

Seth fished the GameBoy out from its hiding place and brandished it overhead. "Oh yeah, you so were. It's still warm to the touch," he caroled gleefully. "Who would have thought? Kirsten Nichol Cohen succumbing to the lure of videogames. Welcome to the dark side, Mom." He checked the score and did an elaborate double take. "And . . . wait, did you cheat? How did you get to level 5 already?"

"Natural talent." Kirsten lifted her chin defiantly and extended her hand, gesturing for the controller. "Give that back, Seth. I might as well enjoy GameBoy's company, since my other men are all deserting me tonight."

Seth slid onto the couch, nestling his head against Kirsten's shoulder. "Ah, poor lonely Mom," he crooned. "Want to come to the comic book trade show with me and Zach?" He dimpled, adding, "They'd probably let you in free if you wore a cape and tights. But, you know, you could come dressed just the way you are. We've actually got an extra ticket since Ryan's not coming."

"Gee, thanks," Kirsten replied dryly.

"No, really, you might enjoy it, Mom. It's a very intellectual event," Seth insisted. "An exchange of aesthetic concepts. An imaginative deconstruction of the cosmos, if you will. See?" He traced the words printed on his t-shirt, reciting them solemnly: "Comic Books: The Mythology of the New Millennium."

Kirsten rolled her eyes, but before she could respond, Sandy breezed in, adjusting his tie. He paused behind the couch to kiss the top of Kirsten's head and ruffle Seth's hair. "Proselytizing again, son?" he teased.

"Prosely-what now?" Seth squirmed out from under his father's hand, smoothing his curls with affronted dignity. "For your information, I simply invited Mom to the comic book show so she wouldn't be stuck all home-alone here tonight."

"Sweetheart, why didn't you say you felt like going out? You could join me," Sandy suggested. "A spirited debate on civil rights in the era of the Patriot Act? Controversy, relevance, and the bonus of my stimulating company?" His voice assumed a wheedling cadence. "Come on. You know you want to."

"Dad, please," Seth scoffed. "I offer Mom fantasy and adventure, and you counter with three hours of political rhetoric? Yeah right, that's totally a fair contest. Anyway, I asked her first."

Kirsten laughed, nuzzling her cheek against Sandy's palm while she patted Seth's leg. "All right, you two. I love you both, so please don't take this the wrong way, but those events sound equally . . . how can I put this? Really, really unappealing. No, I'll just curl up with my good friend GameBoy here." Sighing, Kirsten glanced in the direction of Ryan's room. "Besides, if I were going to go anywhere this evening . . ."

"It would be your father's house," Sandy concluded. "Honey, Ryan can handle himself with your dad. He does not need Mama Bear hovering over him."

"I know," Kirsten agreed defensively. "But I wouldn't hover. And besides, the youth center was my idea in the first place. Don't you think I should be there to, oh, facilitate the first advisory panel?"

Seth nodded, his head springing up and down like a bobble-head doll, but Sandy countered firmly, "No, I don't. And you, son, don't encourage your mother. Sweetheart, we talked about this. Ryan needs to know that you trust him."

"I do trust him," Kirsten insisted, although her mouth was crimped tight with anxiety. "And I think this project would be wonderful for Ryan. It's just . . . my father. Somehow I can't help thinking that . . ." She broke off at the sound of an irregular tapping. Ryan appeared in the doorway, self-consciously balancing on a cane and running a finger around the collar of his button-down shirt.

Seth bounced up. "Hey! Check it out, people—phase two of rehab has officially begun. Meet Ryan Atwood, minus one sling and plus one cane. Cool, dude. How do you feel? Liberated? Unfettered? Ready for action?"

"Stupid," Ryan grumbled, glaring at the cane. "I think this thing is worse than the damn crutch. Makes me look like a wanna-be pimp . . . Sorry, Kirsten. I know, don't say damn. Don't say pimp."

Seth scrutinized Ryan, lips pursed in appraisal, and sighed. "No, man, sadly, that's not the image I'm getting. Now, if you had chosen the cane I liked, the one with the gold snakehead handle? Yeah, that was totally ghetto-cool. But no, you had to pick the standard all-wood model. So really, I've gotta say, dude, you look less stylin' Mack Daddy, and more doddering old lady."

His eyes glinting dangerously, Ryan raised the cane and aimed it at Seth. "Care to rethink that statement?" he growled.

"Okay, hey, look at that, Ryan. It completely doubles as a weapon," Seth observed, shrinking against his mother. "Multiple uses—always a selling point. And yeah, wood. Smooth, natural, classic curve there at the top. Excellent choice, buddy. Timeless and elegant."

"And it makes me look like--?"

"Like a, like a . . . okay, to be honest, Ryan, when you hold it like that, it makes you look a James Bond villain."

"Better than a doddering old lady."

Seth reached over and warily lowered the cane to the floor. "Did I say that? See, that came out all wrong," he claimed. "Dapper lady's man, that's what I meant to say. Dodder, dapper—you can see how my mouth might get mixed up, right?"

"Boys," Sandy interjected. "The style of the cane itself doesn't matter. It's the attitude of the person using it that makes the difference. Ryan? If I may?" He extended his hand.

"Dude, don't," Seth protested, but Ryan ignored him. Sinking gratefully into the nearest chair, he tossed Sandy the cane.

Sandy caught it like a baton and flipped it nimbly from one hand to the other. Then he launched into an energetic rendition of "Puttin' on the Ritz," strutting around the living room and tipping an imaginary top hat when he glided to a halt in front of Kirsten. With a flourish, he pulled her up, twirling her into his arms.

Ryan dropped his face into his hands and groaned.

"I knew it, bro," Seth said, shaking his head in commiseration. "I tried to warn you. Dad with a cane? It's like forces of nature combining to create some disaster, like seismic plates shifting at the earth's core—"

Sandy batted the cane playfully against his son's knees. "Did you say encore, Seth? Because if you insist—"

"Sanford Cohen!" Kirsten admonished, laughing. "Give Ryan his cane back. It is not a musical comedy prop. And you are not Fred Astaire."

Sandy wagged his eyebrows. "I know," he conceded, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Astaire was bald . . . Here you go, kid." He returned the cane to Ryan who caught it, biting back a grin. "I'll give you more lessons in how to handle it tomorrow. You—" Sandy tipped Kirsten's head up and kissed her nose. "Have fun with Game Boy. Don't wear him out . . . You—" He poked a finger affectionately at the words on Seth's chest, "Keep living the dream, son. And you—" Crossing to Ryan, Sandy cupped his neck and waited until the boy met his eyes. Then he said seriously, "Remember kid, tonight's about the youth center. Not Caleb. Don't let him get to you."

"I won't," Ryan promised. He flushed, hearing the implied criticism of Caleb, and his eyes darted apologetically toward Kirsten. "It will be fine, really."

"I know." Sandy squeezed Ryan's shoulder encouragingly and pulled out his car keys. "Sorry I can't drop you off myself, kid, but you probably don't want to get there this early anyway."

Ryan shuddered. "God no."

"Okay then. I'll see you all later." Sandy swept off his invisible top hat, bowed deeply and departed, whistling. Just outside the door, though, he paused, trying to brush off the uneasy sensation that his family was fracturing this evening, breaking into four pieces that were rolling in different and very distant directions.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Seth announced in a sonorous voice, "Sandy Cohen has left the building. Good night and drive carefully." The echo of his last words made him flinch, and he glanced at Kirsten, but she was watching Sandy drive away, her lips curved in a tender smile.

"What about you, Seth?" she asked, turning around. "Don't you have to get going too?"

Seth lifted his wrist, realized he wasn't wearing a watch, and checked Ryan's instead. "That would be yes. Zach should be here soon." His brow furrowed. "Hmm. Zach," he mused. "You know, Ryan, I hadn't thought about it before, but tonight could be potentially awkward, Summer-conversation-wise. I mean, what do I say to the guy about their break-up? And singing the Hallelujah Chorus? I suppose that would be wrong?"

"Say nothing," Ryan advised. "Unless Zach brings it up himself. Then just . . . well be honest, but be a friend. And Seth, no singing of any kind."

Seth nodded. "Right. Got it. Honest. Friend. No singing. But Ryan, that say nothing part? Is that negotiable at all?"

Ryan rolled his eyes, but he ignored the question. Instead he straightened the sleeve that Seth had rumpled in order to uncover his watch. "Kirsten, am I dressed all right?" he asked. "I thought maybe, since it's your father . . . should I wear a jacket? I still have time to change."

"You look fine, just the way you are," Kirsten assured him warmly.

Seth flopped on the couch, heedless of his sneakers on the fabric. "I vote for a change of clothes," he declared, waving his hand in the air. "Personally, I'm thinking a suit of armor, Ryan. That would be, you know, stylish and functional. Or a maybe nice understated flak jacket, if you think chain mail is too showy, and I'm guessing you probably would."

Ryan shot him a warning glare at the same time that Kirsten protested, "Seth Ezekiel!"

"Hey, I'm just saying," Seth replied innocently. "Dress for the occasion, right?" The doorbell rang, startling him. When he sat up one foot caught behind a cushion and he rolled off the couch, landing in an ignominious heap on the floor. "Okay," he muttered, scrambling to his feet, "let's all just pretend that didn't happen."

Ryan's mouth twitched in amusement. "Ladies and gentlemen," he proclaimed, "Seth Cohen has left the building."

"Okay, now see, that's so not pretending, dude," Seth objected. "Just for that, I won't even wish you good luck tonight—except, hey, good luck tonight, Ryan. Night Mom—or should I say, Lara Croft?" He gave Kirsten a cursory kiss and went to grab his portfolio.

"Hey Seth," Ryan called.

Seth ducked back inside, his forehead puckered. "Yeah?"

"Your stuff is great, man," Ryan said quietly. "I hope the people at the trade show are smart enough to see that."

"Really? Thanks!" Seth beamed and bounced happily on his toes. "Yeah, just . . . thanks a lot, bro." The doorbell rang again and he yelled, "Be right there, Zach! . . . So, you think you might feel like some PlayStation later . . . a little Seth-Ryan time maybe?"

"Sure," Ryan agreed. "Sounds good."

"Good," Seth echoed, grinning again.

The door closed behind him, leaving the house suddenly quiet.

Ryan batted his cane awkwardly back and forth. "You know, you don't have to wait here with me if you've got things to do, Kirsten."

"Oh, very important things." Kirsten produced the GameBoy with a self-deprecating smile. "I have to figure out how to get to Level 6." Beckoning Ryan to sit next to her, she resumed the game. "What time is Lindsay picking you up?" she asked after a couple minutes.

"She's not . . . Kirsten, you can jump over that pit to get past the monster . . . Lindsay wasn't invited."

"She wasn't?" A concerned frown creased Kirsten's forehead and her voice sharpened suspiciously. "Why not? I thought Dad would welcome the chance to involve Lindsay with the Newport Group."

Ryan hunched one shoulder uncertainly. "He knows she'll be gone this summer when the project really gets going. Besides, Lindsay said she was pretty harsh to him the last time they talked," he reported. "Your dad probably thought she'd turn him down. . . Kirsten, watch out behind you--"

"I suppose that's possible." Ignoring the game, Kirsten twisted her rings anxiously while her warrior died, unnoticed, on the tiny screen. "But I assumed you'd at least have Lindsay's company tonight. . . Do you know who else is coming?"

"No," Ryan admitted. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not." Kirsten fluffed the throw pillows on the couch and rearranged them restlessly. "How are you getting to Dad's house, Ryan?"

Embarrassed, Ryan chewed his lower lip. "Um . . . your father is sending a car for me." Kirsten's eyes widened in surprise, and he added, "I kind of thought he would have told you. But I guess he figured that I would."

"My father . . ." Kirsten's voice trailed off in confusion.

"Yeah, I know. I mean it's nice of him, but it's sort of . . . weird. Unless maybe . . . I could borrow the Rover and drive myself?" Ryan busied himself resetting the game, trying to make his request sound nonchalant.

"The answer to that would be no," Kirsten replied, looking pointedly at the cane propped against his chair and the brace still supporting his knee. She took a deep breath. "I suppose, though . . . I could drive you," she offered slowly.

Ryan wanted to accept, but he couldn't mistake the brittle tone of Kirsten's voice, the tense lines of her face. "No, that's okay, Kirsten," he said, and heard her sigh with relief. Inclining his head, he smiled impishly, adding, "But there is one thing you could do for me. . . Give me a chance to beat your score."

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Caleb ran a finger around the rim of his wine glass, staring pensively into its swirling contents.

"Bad vintage?" Julie asked, catching sight of him in the mirror as she smoothed some errant strands of hair. "We could send for another bottle."

"Hmm?" Caleb murmured absently as he took a drink.

"Well, I guess nothing's wrong with the wine." Julie sat down opposite Caleb, crossing her legs and taking a moment to admire the sleek lines of her new sandals. "What's the problem, Cal?"

A small vertical line wrinkled Caleb's forehead briefly before he answered. "Nothing, really, Juju. I was just recalling a visit Sanford paid me the other day. Apparently, he feels that I'm putting my relationship with Kirsten on the line this evening."

"So what's this? Second thoughts?"

"Not at all." Caleb sipped his wine and smiled acerbically. "Every venture has risks, but after all, what happens tonight is strictly up to Ryan. Kiki will understand that."

Julie pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I'm sure Sandy has warned Ryan to be on his best behavior," she mused. "And he's quite capable of acting civilized when he tries—look at the show he's put on since he got back from Chino last fall. He's not stupid you know, Cal."

"Perhaps not," Caleb countered. "But he hasn't been challenged, has he? From what I've seen, the boy has very little self-control. He's ruled by his temper and his libido. I doubt very much that he'll be able to manage either one of them when he's put to the test." The doorbell rang, and Caleb drained the rest of his glass. "Ah," he murmured. "It seems our guests are arriving. Juju--?"

Julie stood up, smoothing her slacks and tossing her hair over her shoulders. "Right. I'm off to play hostess," she announced. "Do enjoy your evening, darling."

She blew Caleb a kiss and swept out of the room, leaving him alone in his study.

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Ryan shifted uneasily on the butter-soft upholstery of Caleb's town car, wondering which was worse—the prospect of an evening at the Nichol house or this solitary ride that seemed endless. He had never been chauffeured anywhere before, and the whole experience chafed him, as if he were wearing somebody else's ill-fitting skin. When the car had arrived at the Cohen house, almost ten minutes late, Ryan had automatically headed for the front passenger seat, only to see the driver appear and hold the back door open for him. Sheepishly, muttering an almost inaudible "Hey, how are you doing?" Ryan had ducked inside. He reached for the door, then snatched his hand back in embarrassment when he realized that the driver was shutting it for him.

As he slid behind the wheel, the driver murmured politely, "I'm fine, thank you, sir."

Sir. Ryan had no idea who that was.

Since then they had ridden in an unnerving silence. Ryan felt as if the driver was waiting for some cue from him, but he had no idea what he was supposed to say or do.

"Nice car," he observed finally, the words sounding inane in his own ears. "It's a really smooth ride."

"Yes." The driver's voice was clipped and distant. "It handles beautifully, sir."

Sir. There was that word again. Unconsciously, Ryan rubbed his injured arm, shivering in the frigid air-conditioning, but unwilling to ask the driver to turn it down. He could almost hear a phantom Seth protesting, "Seriously, dude, you've got to say something. It will be tough enough to relax at Grandpa's house without showing up there literally frozen stiff."

With a rueful half-smile, Ryan wished momentarily that he had accepted Seth's offer to come along. At least his babbling would dispel the tense silence in the car.

When they finally turned into the curving driveway that led to the Nichol house, Ryan exhaled, feeling exhausted suddenly. Clutching his cane, he forced himself to wait until the driver opened his door.

"Thank you," he said. "I guess I'll . . . see you later?"

The driver nodded impassively. "Just let me know when you're ready to leave, sir."

Ryan wondered if he imagined the small sneer that flashed across the driver's face, the impression that the man was secretly thinking, "Entitled brat." Feeling oddly off-balance, Ryan took a moment to brace himself, but even so he wavered as he walked up to the Nichol house.

Before he could even ring the doorbell, Julie flung open the front door.

"Ryan!" she exclaimed, air-kissing his cheek. "I am so glad you're here. And ooh, look at you, with a cane instead of a crutch. You were handsome before, but now you're positively irresistible."

Grimacing, Ryan licked his dry lips and murmured, "Thank you." He glanced around, surprised not to see Caleb hovering nearby. "Is Mr. Nichol in his study? I wanted to speak to him before the meeting—if we have time, I mean. The car was a little late."

Julie slipped a proprietary arm through Ryan's and leaned in confidentially as she walked him into the house, the scent of her perfume coiling around them both. "Ryan, Cal is so sorry, but he's not going to be able to join you tonight after all. You won't mind playing host for him, though, will you?"

"What?" Ryan stopped, blinking in confusion. "Mr. Nichol won't be here? Why not?"

Julie waved a hand airily. "Honestly, Ryan, I don't even know exactly," she claimed. "Some aspects of the business are just beyond me, mostly because they're so boring. Charts, numbers, financial projections—not sexy at all." She wrinkled her nose, shuddering delicately, and continued, "Cal asked me to give you his regrets. He's been on a conference call with people in Japan, something about problems with a merger he's arranging there, and he's going to be busy putting out fires all night."

Ryan gripped the top of his cane. He couldn't quite identify the dizzy sensation surging through him. It seemed to be an unsettling mixture of relief, apprehension, and suspicion. "So this just happened?" he asked.

"Within the last half-hour actually," Julie answered. "So it was much too late to cancel. You'll have to extend Cal's apologies to everyone and manage without him. You can do that, can't you Ryan?"

"I suppose," Ryan said slowly. "But Mr. Nichol was supposed to present the project."

"Ryan, silly, it's not Mr. Nichol. Call him Caleb. After all, we're family. Now, I'll tell you what." Julie smiled wickedly and tapped an index finger against her lower lip. "Everyone will be here soon and the food is already set up by the pool. Why don't you all just enjoy yourselves, get to know each other better, and save the actual meeting for another time when Cal can make it?"

Ryan's eyes narrowed speculatively. "So basically you're saying we should have a party?"

"Why not?" Julie laughed, giving his arm a conspiratorial squeeze. "Just mention the youth center once or twice so we can write off the cost of the catering." Her mouth pursed in a mock-pout. "I'd join you myself, but I'm off to a fashion preview at the club."

"You're not sticking around either? Marissa's here though, right?"

Julie shook her head, sighing in resignation. "No, I'm afraid she's out with Alex tonight . . . So, that means you have the house to yourself, Ryan. Look, I have to run, and one of your guests is already out by the pool. Have a good time, all right? Just don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Julie grabbed her purse from a side table, gave Ryan a playful push towards the French doors, and left. For a moment, he stood motionless, watching her go, his blue eyes clouded with doubt. Then he ran a hand through his hair, rolled his shoulders back, and went out to the patio.

For a moment, Ryan didn't see anyone. A buffet table was prepared, lined with chafing dishes and covered bowls, and places were set at small round tables surrounding it. At each seat laya glossy brochure labeled "Newport Youth Center: A Place for Our Future." Ryan unfolded one of them curiously. He started to scan a bullet-point summary of the project when he heard a small splash and a voice called, in an eerie echo of Julie's greeting, "Ryan! I'm so glad you're here!"

Ryan glanced up. He caught his breath and the brochure fluttered unnoticed to the ground. A girl was climbing out of the pool. At first, stunned, he thought she was completely naked, but when she stepped under a light, he realized that she had on a bra and thong panties, the drenched fabric transparent and molded tight to her body.

Ryan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Jamie?" he asked hoarsely.

She giggled and skipped toward him, pausing to snag a small open bottle from a table along the way. "I got bored waiting for everybody to get here," she explained giddily. "So I went for a little swim. And—oops!"

One foot slipped out from under her and she grabbed the edge of a chair. Instinctively, Ryan dropped his cane and reached out, catching her before she reached the ground.

"Mmm, my hero," Jamie murmured, pressing her face into his throat and licking up to his jaw line. The bottle that she was holding tipped, sloshing vodka down Ryan's shirt.

Ryan pulled back. "Jamie," he began again, but his voice was choked off as she locked her arms around his neck and hopped up, wrapping her legs around his waist at the same time. Staggering backwards, Ryan fell onto the lounge chair behind him with Jamie on his lap. Her wet curls tickled his chin as she burrowed there, mashing her breasts against his chest and twining damp fingers into his hair.

Ryan tried to ease her away, but his hands slipped off her waist and caught on the thin, soaked lace band of her thong.

"Ooh, bad boy," Jamie purred into his ear. She squirmed closer and dipped her head down, nudging his shirt collar away and grazing his shoulder with her teeth.

"Don't," Ryan rasped. "Look, Jamie, I'm not trying to . . ."

"Trying to what?" Jamie teased, grinding against him. "Do this, you mean?"

Ryan inhaled sharply and lifted her off his lap. He twisted up from beneath her, ignoring the angry protest of his injured knee, and set Jamie down on the chair.

"Well now, I'm cold," she pouted, trying to wiggle back into his arms. "Oh, and look, you're all wet too, babe. I got you all wet, just like me." She plucked at the translucent fabric of her bra. It clung to her skin, outlining the swell of her breasts and puckering over her nipples.

Ryan tore his eyes away and looked around for something, anything, to dry Jamie, or at least cover her. In desperation, he stripped the tablecloth off a nearby table and draped it around her shoulders.

"Drinking and swimming? Shouldn't do it alone, Jamie," he warned, rubbing her arms and then wrapping the tablecloth close around her.

"Not alone now. You're here," Jamie caroled happily. "We can play together." Her hands fumbled with Ryan's shirt, trying to push it off his shoulders. "You're all wet," she repeated. "Shouldn't stay in those wet clothes, babe. You could catch a . . . a cold or something."

Insistently her fingers tugged first at one sleeve and then at the other, until Ryan surrendered. "Fine," he said, shrugging off his shirt. He turned to hang it over a chair, and Jamie's hands slid under his wife-beater from behind, stroking slowly up his back.

"This is wet too, Ryan. Should take it off," she urged, kneeling on the lounge chair and pressing against his body. She reached for his belt buckle, giggling, her breath hot against Ryan's neck. "And your pants. I made a big wet spot there, didn't I? In a really embarrassing place."

Ryan caught her wrists. "Stop it," he hissed, his voice rasping as she dragged their joined hands down to his groin. "We're not doing this, Jamie. I'm not—"

"Whoa!" a voice called exuberantly. "Shit guys, looks like Ryan and Jamie started their party already. We've got some serious catching up to do."

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"Okay, Zach, you seriously expect me to listen to these?" Seth demanded, distastefully examining Zach's CD collection. He shook his head in dismay. "I should so have been in charge of choosing the music."

"I like Mariah Carey and Kelly Clarkson," Zach protested. "They can sing, plus they're hot. Besides, you were supposed to bring the snacks. And I don't exactly see any. What did you do, Cohen? Forget them?"

Seth huffed indignantly. "I absolutely did not. The snacks are right. . . They're right . . . " He looked down at his feet and then craned his head around to check the backseat. "Okay, apparently they're in the trunk with my portfolio. Or maybe back on our driveway. I'm not sure. But it's not as if I forgot them exactly. I'm positive I had them when I left the house. I think. Anyway, we won't starve. The drive isn't that long."

Zach pressed the play button and Kelly Clarkson's "Behind These Hazel Eyes" filled the car.

"It will only seem that long," Seth muttered, drumming his fingers restively on his thighs. He raised his voice, desperate to drown out the music. "So . . . you couldn't find anybody to use that third ticket either, huh?"

"I only asked Summer, and she wasn't interested," Zach replied. Then he added honestly, "Besides, it might have been awkward if she had come. We broke up."

Seth's head bobbed up and down. "Yeah," he admitted. "I heard." Remembering Ryan's advice, he swallowed all his instinctive comments and asked warily, "Are you okay with that?"

Zach considered for a moment. "Yeah, I am," he said finally. "Summer is great, but we just didn't work as a couple. No real spark or something. We're still friends, though . . . Anyway, she turned me down in favor of a girl's night out with Lindsay, Marissa and Alex. You know, Summer will enjoy that better than a comic book trade show."

"Yeah," Seth agreed. "I can hear her now: 'Boring!' 'Lame.' 'Eww.' 'God, this is like, geek paradise—'"Seth's Summer-imitation stopped abruptly. "Wait a minute, Zach," he demanded. "Summer is going out with Alex and Marissa and Lindsay tonight?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Seth frowned and shifted uneasily, feeling as though something was prickling the backs of his legs. "I don't know," he mused. "I just figured Marissa and Lindsay would be at my grandfather's tonight—you know, part of the youth center advisory panel."

"Oh, right. That thing Ryan's doing. Yeah, you would think they'd be involved, just because of the Caleb Nichol connection." Zach deftly passed the car in front of him and resumed cruise control, chuckling. "Man, that is going to be one bizarre focus group, though."

"What do you mean?" Seth asked sharply.

"It's just that some of the people who were invited . . . Sure, I know their parents work for the Newport Group, but I can't picture Eric Bredlow or Jamie Stanton or Tucker Ridley contributing meaningful ideas for a youth center. Jamie in particular. I mean, I know it's not a polite thing to say, but seriously, does that girl ever think about anything except getting high or getting laid?"

Involuntarily, Seth's muscles tensed, and his eyes narrowed. "Jamie was invited to be on the panel? You're sure?"

"Yeah," Zach confirmed mildly. "Tucker was complaining the other day that his father is forcing him to go. But then he said there was hope for some fun anyway, since Jamie would be there."

Seth twisted in his seat, digging out his cell phone and punching Ryan's number frantically. "Pick up, man," he muttered. "Shit, come on, pick up, pick up, pick up . . . Okay, Ryan, listen, you shouldn't go to Grandpa's tonight. Trust me on this, all right? Just don't go. Unless . . . oh fuck, if you're already there, just . . . seriously, man, don't do anything stu—just don't do anything. And call me!"

"What's up, Cohen?' Zach asked as Seth hung up.

"What the fuck good are cell phones when people don't answer them? . . . Okay, Zach, we have to go back."

"What?"

"We've got to turn around, man. You've got to drop me off at my grandfather's house."

"Now?" Zach glanced over, baffled. "What the hell, Seth? And what do you mean, drop you off? What about the trade show? Your presentation?"

Seth licked his lips, swallowing the sour taste of disappointment. "Screw the presentation," he replied. "I'm not going. Zach, turn right up here, turn right, turn—okay, you totally missed the turn!"

"Because I'm not taking you to your grandfather's house. It's completely out of our way, man."

"Then just stop the car," Seth ordered. "I mean it, Zach. Stop the fucking car. Now."

Pulling over, Zach sat back, shaking his head incredulously and watching as Seth scrambled out of the passenger seat. "You're insane, you know that, Cohen?"

"Yeah, so I've been told. But hey, it works for me."

Seth waved Zach off impatiently, not even glancing up as the car drove off. "Okay, Dad's too far away," he muttered to himself. "And who the hell knows where Summer and Lindsay are. Gotta be Mom--" He punched in Kirsten's number, his words tumbling out almost before she answered the phone.

"Mom! Okay, listen, I know we had a deal about when you'd start driving and everything, but you have to come pick me up. Like right now. We've got to get over to Grandpa's house. Ryan needs us."


	28. Chapter 28

Thanks to everyone who stuck with this marathon story. I hope the ending satisfies, because it fought me, and I am written out! There may be a Lindsay-Ryan, Seth-Summer epilogue.   
Collision Course Chapter 26 

"Seth? What's wrong? Why does Ryan need us? What's happened?"

Kirsten's voice, shrill and distant, skidded on the edge of panic. Belatedly Seth realized that it wasn't a good idea to terrify his mother when he wanted her to drive for the first time since the accident.

"Nothing's happened, Mom," he said, trying simultaneously to sound urgent and reassuring. "Or well, yeah, I mean something did, or at least it could, but Ryan's fine. Physically. It's just . . . could you pick me up and I'll explain when you get here?"

"Did the car break down? Are you stranded somewhere? Seth, what is going on?"

Seth raked his fingers through his hair, producing drunken curls that staggered over his head. "I'm not stranded," he replied. "Except, I kind of am, because Zach went to the trade show, and—okay, see, Mom, I could explain this while we're actually driving to Grandpa's house, which would be a lot more time-effective than this conversation. So, short version: this advisory panel? It's some kind of a fucking set-up."

There was a moment of silence so absolute that Seth thought for a moment the line had gone dead. "Mom?" he prompted anxiously.

He heard a sound, like a sharp breath or a stifled curse, and then Kirsten ordered, "Tell me where you are." Her tone was terse and insistent, almost unfamiliar to Seth. It belonged to the Kirsten Nichol Cohen who coolly chaired corporate meetings and snapped orders to contractors more than twice her size.

Startled, Seth echoed uncertainly, "Where I am . . ." He made an awkward pirouette, craning his neck to check for street signs. "Right, now, that would be—okay, I know it's Wilshire Boulevard. Let me just see--"

"Seth!"

"Wilshire and Crandall. I'm on the northeast—wait, the sun's setting there, so okay, the northwest corner. In front of an eye clinic . . . You're gonna come, right Mom?"

"Just don't move," Kirsten commanded. "I'm on my way, Seth."

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At the sound of people coming through the French doors, Ryan jerked upright, with Jamie still molded damply to his back. His hands slid off her slick skin as he moved. Giggling, she slipped her fingers inside the waistband of his pants, and began rubbing slowly, trying to reach lower. Ryan's breath hitched, and he could feel heat flaming his ears.

"Jamie, stop," he hissed.

"Why?" she asked lazily, nuzzling his neck. "You like it. Know you do."

"Fuck, Atwood," Eric drawled, nodding appreciatively at the sight of Jamie's wet, nearly nude body. "At it already? And here I thought this advisory panel shit was going to mean a wasted evening. Guess we'll get to be wasted instead, huh? So where are you hiding the booze?"

Ryan's jaw tightened as he attempted to disengage Jamie's fingers without hurting her. "It's not a fucking party, Eric," he snapped. "And there is no booze . . . Jamie, I mean it. Stop now . . . "

"There sure as hell was some, though," another guy commented. "What did you two do, drink it all yourselves?" He sat down, spread his legs and patted his groin. "Hey, Jamie, if Atwood doesn't want what you're offering, you can always bring that action my way."

Ryan could feel Jamie's body tense against his. "Shut up, Tucker," he ordered curtly. Ducking one shoulder, he managed to turn and lift Jamie off the lounge chair. He kept one arm circling her shoulders, holding the tablecloth in place as he set her down. She leaned against him, shivering and unsteady. "Jamie's going to get dressed now."

"I am?" Jamie cuddled closer. She blinked up at him, her eyelashes tangled together in spiky clusters. "How come, babe?"

"Because I don't feel like playing these games," Ryan's voice was brittle, and he lowered it, adding in a weary whisper, "Just, please, get dressed, Jamie."

"Thought you wanted to play," she protested. Her face looked like a child's, sulking but also nakedly hurt. "Thought we were gonna get to know each other better. You know, have fun tonight, like we were gonna at that tightass party last week."

Ryan's eyes narrowed. Snatching her clothes, he steered Jamie toward the house, past the leering eyes of more arriving guests. "Why would you think that, Jamie?" he asked. In his voice, a degree of sympathy mixed with suspicion.

"They said," Jamie murmured vaguely. They reached the French doors and she swayed against Ryan. One hand clutched his, while the other curled around his neck, playing with the ends of his hair. "Just wanna have some fun with you, babe. You know, like before. 'Member?" When Ryan stiffened, clenching his jaw, she added plaintively, "You really don't want me . . . want me here?"

Ryan paused, trying to find the right words. "You being here is fine, Jamie. It's just that I don't want . . . this." Gently, he peeled her off his chest, and took a step back, creating a space between their bodies.

"I don't understand." Jamie's lips started to tremble, and she pulled the tablecloth tight, shrinking inside it. "Thought you liked me. Ryan, don't you like me even the littlest little bit?"

Ryan reached toward her and then dropped his hand helplessly. "Yeah, I like you," he said. "Look, Jamie, you're fun and sexy as hell, and I bet there's a lot more to you that you don't let people see. So shit, yeah, under other circumstances . . ." Gritting his teeth, Ryan swallowed hard before he declared firmly, "But I have a girlfriend."

"Oh," Jamie whispered. "That, what's her name, Lindsay? Really?"

Ryan closed his eyes briefly, then nodded and handed Jamie her clothes. "Yeah. Lindsay," he confirmed. "She means a lot to me. And she trusts me, even though she knows what happened . . . what almost happened . . . between us. So you've got to understand, no matter how tempting it . . . you . . . may be . . ." He exhaled a shaky breath and stroked Jamie's cheek with one finger, concluding gruffly, "I really can't . . ."

Clutching her dress to her chest, Jamie studied Ryan, her head tilted, her expression bemused. "God," she sighed finally. "You do one hell of a sexy rejection, babe. Hope Lindsay knows how lucky she is. I'd give anything to have a boyfriend like you." Standing on tiptoe, she pressed a long, chaste kiss on Ryan's mouth, tracing it lightly with her tongue just as she pulled away. "So if the two of you ever break up . . ."

"I'll let you know," Ryan promised. His lips quirked in a crooked half-smile. "You okay?"

Jamie shrugged. "Yeah. Well, except for freezing a little. But I think maybe me hanging around isn't such a great idea . . ." Her voice trailed off and she twisted a wet curl around her finger.

"No, stay," Ryan urged. His expression tightened, even though his tone stayed consoling. "Look, Jamie, you got played here—we both did—and I'm sorry about that. But you've got nothing to be ashamed of, okay? And besides, you're not in shape to drive home right now. Please don't go yet."

"You care whether I get home safe?"

"Yeah. I do."

"That's nice, Ryan," Jamie said softly. "You're nice. Thanks for . . . well, not treating me like the ho of Newport. So I guess I'll just . . . get dressed and come back out? And maybe, we could be, kind of, friends?"

A loud splash and whoops of raucous laughter punctuated by shattering glass startled them both. Ryan's head whipped around. His eyes darkened, and he nodded grimly. "That would be great, Jamie. I think I'm going to need all the friends I can get here tonight."

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Kirsten clutched the steering wheel in a death grip.

Ever since she finished talking to Seth, she had been moving automatically, getting her jacket and purse, checking for directions, walking to the Rover, pulling out her keys. They felt sharp and icy in her hands, but she didn't allow herself to think about that, or about the way her body recoiled when she climbed in the driver's seat. For just a moment after she turned on the ignition, she sat, listening to the hum of the engine, staring sightlessly out the repaired windshield, preparing herself to put the car into gear.

She could do this, Kirsten told herself sternly. She had to do this.

For some reason, her mind conjured images of a humid evening like this sixteen years ago. Sandy had been working late, leaving her alone with Seth, who, overtired and teething, began first to fidget and then flail, arcing his back as she held him, hiccupping into her shoulder. Kirsten fed him and changed him and rocked him, but still he cried inconsolably whenever she tried to put him into his crib. Seth's eyes, dark with exhaustion, kept fluttering shut and then snapping open, tears and misery staining his cheeks. Desperate to soothe him, and equally desperate to escape the stifling house that echoed with his sobs, Kirsten finally bundled up her restless baby, tucked him into his car seat, and drove.

They hadn't gone a quarter mile before the motion and sound lulled Seth to sleep.

Kirsten remembered sneaking amazed peeks at her baby's face in the rearview mirror. Each time she marveled at how rapidly the red splotches faded, how readily Seth's small limbs relaxed and his breathing evened to a soft pulsing sound, something like a purr. She remembered too, the warm feeling that suffused her own body—relief that she had found a way to comfort her son, hope that she would always be able to keep him safe.

Shuddering slightly at the memory, Kirsten set her shoulders, took a long breath, and pulled out of the drive.

If her child—both her children—needed her now, she couldn't indulge her own fears anymore.

Kirsten didn't glance at the guardhouse when she turned onto the main road, even though she could see the guard waving in her peripheral vision. Willing herself not to think of anything except the directions, she drove steadily, cautiously, sitting straight in her seat, until at last she spotted Seth. Bouncing impatiently, he leaned out to check oncoming traffic, his arms waving like semaphores when he saw the Rover approaching. The instant Kirsten pulled over, he darted over to the driver's side.

"You're here," he gasped through the open window. His voice was ragged, as though he had been running. "Well, okay, obvious point, but . . . great. Thanks, Mom. For coming. I wasn't sure . . . well, I mean, I was sure you'd come, because you said you would, but, you know, not so sure that . . . well, anyway, if you scoot over, I can drive now."

Seth's breathless gratitude melted something frozen in Kirsten. Smiling ruefully, she patted his cheek. "I'm fine, Seth," she said. "Just get in before the light changes."

"You don't mind driving? Really?"

"Really."

His eyes wide with surprise, Seth bobbed his head and bounded around to slide into the passenger seat. He sat in uncharacteristic silence as his mother eased the car back into traffic, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"I'm waiting," Kirsten prompted impatiently. "Seth?"

"Huh? What?"

"Why does Ryan need us? What's going on?"

"What's going on? Oh, right, you mean tell you what's going on," Seth stammered. He drummed his fingers on his knees. "So, turns out Zach knows some of the people Grandpa invited to this advisory panel thing tonight. Their parents all work for the Newport Group, which, fine, nothing suspicious there. But Marissa and Lindsay weren't invited, which I've got to say I think is a little bizarre, since, hello, Grandpa pretty much is the Newport Group. And then kids who were asked . . . Okay, now what's the politically correct way to put this?"

"Just say it, Seth. What about them?" Kirsten demanded.

Seth yanked off a thread dangling from the hem of his t-shirt. "It's like a who's who of Harbor's major players, Mom," he blurted. "Like, all the kids Ryan was hanging with at the re-launch party when, when, well, you know . . . And, I hate to think Grandpa did it deliberately, but . . . shit, that's exactly what I do think. I'm sorry, I mean, he's my grandfather and I love the guy in a somebody's-got-to-do-it, blood-is-thicker kind of way. Even though I'm really not so sure how he feels about me. But I do know Grandpa hates Ryan, and my guess? He's hoping to make Ryan to screw up so bad that you and Dad throw him out. Or Lindsay breaks up with him. Or he gets sent back to juvie. Or maybe, I don't know, all of the above."

Exhausted by his outburst, Seth leaned back miserably, bracing for his mother's reaction.

"I should have known," Kirsten whispered. She took a deep breath before she spoke again, but when she did, her tone was firm and steady. "All right, Seth, first of all, your grandfather does love you."

"You think?" Seth asked dubiously.

"I know he does."

Seth shrugged, and found another loose thread to coil around his finger. "Yeah, okay, maybe—in a he's-my-grandson-so-I've-got-to kind of way. But he's not proud of me."

"Oh, sweetie," Kirsten sighed. "Love and control get mixed up in your grandfather's mind. You insist on being your own person, and that throws him. One of these days, he'll be proud that he can't force you to be something you're not. Strength of character is a good thing, Seth, and don't you ever forget it. But as for Ryan . . ." Kirsten's voice trailed off unhappily.

"Don't try to spin it, Mom," Seth warned. "Grandpa flat out despises Ryan. You should have heard what he said about him at the re-launch party—I mean, not to me, but I heard him. Overheard him. Not that I was trying to eavesdrop or anything."

"Seth."

"Really, I wasn't," Seth insisted, hunching down in his seat.

"Sweetie, just tell me," Kirsten urged. "What did you hear?"

A dull flush of vicarious shame shadowed Seth's face. "Some guy was complimenting Ryan's designs—I guess you showed them to him," he recalled glumly. "But Grandpa blew him off. He called Ryan a delinquent and an opportunist. Some other stuff too." Seth's forehead creased in bewilderment. "And see, that makes, like, zero sense, Mom. Because shit, Ryan's smart and strong and athletic, and yeah, he comes from a rough background, but so did Grandpa. Ryan's even interested in Newport-Group stuff. He's like, the ideal Nichol grandson, except, you know, not-so-related. I don't get what Grandpa has against him."

With the car stopped at a light, Kirsten reached over and rubbed Seth's arm soothingly. "I think that's the problem," she mused. "Your grandfather sees some of himself in Ryan, so he assumes everything about them is likely to be the same. And my father—well, a lot of the things he did to make his fortune were not exactly kosher, Seth."

"Kosher?" Seth snorted. "Okay, only Mom? Wrong side of the family there, remember?"

"You know what I mean," Kirsten reproved, although her lips crimped in amusement. "Your grandfather has never trusted Ryan because he knows that in Ryan's position, he would have been out for everything he could get. But I really believed that he had finally realized how wrong he is . . . Seth, what exactly are you afraid is happening at your grandfather's house?"

Seth shrugged and stared out the window. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Sex, drugs, rock and roll? Maybe a few police sirens?"

"Oh Seth, you don't think Ryan--?"

"No!" Seth protested vehemently before he amended, "I mean, I don't think he would, because, you know, it's not like it was the night of the party. Things are better now. With us, and between him and Lindsay and, well . . . everything. But no matter what, Ryan shouldn't have to deal with Grandpa alone. He's always had my back. It's just . . . it's time I returned the favor, that's all."

Kirsten flashed her son a small smile of mingled pride and approval. "I think you're right," she agreed. "But Seth, you do know that your father and I would never throw Ryan out, don't you?"

"Yeah, Mom, of course I do." Seth looked at his mother and nodded decisively. "And I think even Ryan knows that now. But Grandpa doesn't."

"Well, he's going to," Kirsten declared. Seth heard it again—that determined, indomitable tone, and he felt a surge of confidence. His mother was back. "Call your father, would you, sweetie? I think we Cohens need to present a united front tonight."

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Without bothering to knock, Ryan swung open the ornately carved door to Caleb's office. He took three steps inside, then stopped, his eyes dark and dangerous as they scanned the room.

Caleb's chair had been facing the window, but at the sound of the door, he swung around. "Ah, Ryan. It's rather early, isn't it?" he asked, swirling the cognac in his glass. His tone was cool and faintly amused, and he took a sip before continuing. "Don't tell me the advisory panel has already completed its work and adjourned for the evening?"

A muscle jumped in Ryan's jaw. "Everybody's gone home if that's what you mean," he answered. His lips twisted cynically as he spotted a globe in the room and he crossed to it, giving it a vicious spin. "And I see you've finished—what was it now? Dealing with some emergency in Japan that kept you from joining us?"

Caleb shrugged slightly and poured himself another drink. "I managed to avert the crisis."

"Yeah. I'm sure you did." Ryan gritted his teeth, hating to ask, but finally ground out, "I couldn't find your driver. Could you call him for me?"

Running his finger along the rim of his glass, Caleb studied the boy thoughtfully before nodding. "Of course," he agreed, "if you're ready to leave."

"I'm ready," Ryan snapped. "Unless there's something else you want me to do for you. Take a drug test, maybe?"

Caleb's brows furrowed and he rose from his seat. "Young man, don't you take that tone--" he warned.

"My tone?" Ryan hissed. He seemed to be forcing the words out between measured breaths. "Yeah, that's the problem here."

"That will do, Ryan." Gripping the edge of his desk, Caleb added with icy disdain, "Clearly you have no idea what was going on here tonight."

"Hell, I know exactly what this was tonight," Ryan retorted. "And it had nothing to do with any youth center. You found out what happened at your party, and you thought you'd give me a chance to fuck up again, right? Did you have the cops on standby to bust me?" Ryan's fists clenched, and he took a moment to get his hectic breathing under control.

"I said that's enough, Ryan. If you really want to know--"

"I don't," Ryan said flatly. "I just want to get out of here. Which is what you want too, right? Tell your driver I'll be waiting outside." He turned to the door, but Caleb moved swiftly to block his way.

"You and I aren't done here, young man."

Ryan clutched his cane tightly and retreated a step, as though he didn't trust himself close to Caleb. "We were done before we started," he sneered. "This was never an advisory panel. It was a fucking ambush. Do you think I wouldn't notice how you stacked the guest list? And made sure Jamie was here early, thinking that I—Well, sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Nichol. That part of your plan didn't work. Although you did lose a punch bowl and a few plants before I could convince everybody that the party was over. Oh, and your pool? You should clean it before you use it again. But I'm sure you already know all that, because you had security cameras watching us, right?"

Caleb drew himself up to his full height, his mouth tightening. "That was quite a speech, Ryan. I'm impressed," he observed. "You do have a curious sense of paranoia, though. I hardly need to justify myself to you, but the fact is I invited some children of Newport Group employees to participate on the advisory panel. It made perfect business sense. They have a vested interest in seeing this project succeed."

"Right," Ryan scoffed. "And it was just a coincidence that they happened to be the kids I was hanging out with at the re-launch party."

Caleb raised his eyebrows coolly. "Were they?" he countered. "Well then, they were friends of yours. I fail to see how you could take issue with me inviting your friends to work with you, Ryan."

"My friends," Ryan echoed. "You mean like Seth, and Marissa and Lindsay? Funny, I didn't see any of them here tonight. And as for work--" He swallowed, visibly choking back what he wanted to say. "You know what? I'm done talking to you. One thing, though--" Flinging a sheaf of papers on Caleb's desk, Ryan gave a short, bitter laugh. "These are the notes I made for the meeting. Yeah, I was that stupid—I actually thought we'd talk about the youth center tonight. Anyway, here you go—you know, so you can burn them or shred them, or keep them as souvenirs. Whatever . . . Thanks for the evening. I won't forget it."

In his haste to turn, Ryan lost his grip on his cane and it crashed to the floor. "Fuck!" he muttered, grabbing for it futilely. He refused to look back at Caleb as he fumbled to pick it up and make his way out the room.

Just as he reached the door, Caleb's voice halted him.

"Ryan," he ordered. "Stop right there."

At the tone of clipped authority Ryan spun around, rigid with rage. "Don't you tell me what to do," he snapped. "Just—don't."

"Or what? You'll give me a demonstration of that famous Atwood violent streak? Are you threatening me, young man?" Caleb's eyes locked on Ryan's, the goading words not quite matching his appraising expression.

Ryan's fists opened and closed convulsively. He shut his eyes, seeing Kirsten's face, Sandy's, Seth's, and forced himself to answer evenly, "I am not threatening you. I just want to leave. That's all."

"Fine," Caleb said. "Feel free to go." He stepped to the door and held it open with one hand. In the other, he grasped Ryan's discarded notes. Smiling ironically, he added, "But if you're as smart as my daughter claims you are—two of my daughters, in fact—you'll stay in this room and listen to what I have to say."

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When no one answered the doorbell after three rings, Seth and Kirsten stared at each other in consternation.

"Oh-kay," Seth said slowly. "This makes no sense. How can no one be home? 'Cause I think it's safe to say we've got the right address." He stepped back and surveyed the house critically. "Ostentatious, oversize Taco Bell design? Yep, that's Casa Nichol."

Kirsten frowned, trying the locked door. "They have to be here. Maybe they're back by the pool, and just didn't hear us," she suggested. "Come on, Seth."

Striding quickly, she led the way around the house, but when they reached the patio, she and Seth both froze, exchanging apprehensive glances again.

"Shit," Seth breathed. Two tables were overturned, and several pieces of silverware floated in the pool among bobbing plants and a couple abandoned pieces of underwear. "Okay, you don't suppose Julie had a few Newpsies over for margaritas and they did this?" he asked hopefully. "Or maybe there was a mini-earthquake t here? That, um, shook the clothes right off people?"

Kirsten's mouth set in a grim line as she pulled her out phone and dialed, listening anxiously. "Ryan's not answering his cell, or at the pool house," she announced, before she caught sight of her son wandering through the chaos and demanded, "Seth, what do you think you're doing?"

Guiltily, Seth wiped off the finger that he was trailing through some white powder spilled on the buffet table. "Just, you know . . . checking," he muttered. "It's only sugar anyway. I think. Not that I'd know. Well, I would know sugar, but . . . Oh hell, Mom, this is so . . . really not good."

"Let's go," Kirsten ordered abruptly, grabbing his elbow.

Seth pulled back in confusion. "Home?"

"Inside." Kirsten pointed to the French doors, which stood ajar. "Somebody is here, and we're not leaving until we find out what happened and where Ryan is."

"Right," Seth agreed, but he shuffled in place, resisting his mother's attempts to propel him forward. Suddenly he was very afraid of what they might find.

Ryan and his grandfather were two formidable forces. If they had clashed . . . and it was clear that they had . . . well, an earthquake would probably do less damage.

And Seth didn't know if his family could survive another rift.

"Seth," Kirsten insisted. "House. Now." Noticing the dread in his eyes, she lowered her voice. "It will be all right, sweetie," she assured him. "Ryan came here in good faith, and he is not responsible for this. Trust me. I'll handle your grandfather."

"Right," Seth repeated. This time he set his shoulders and marched with his mother into the house.

Apparently the destruction was limited to the patio. Inside, all the rooms appeared in order, pristine but deserted.

"Dad?" Kirsten called. "Ryan? Where are you?"

Seth put his hand on her arm. "Mom, listen," he urged.

From the hall that led to Caleb's study, they heard his voice snapping, "Are you telling me that I'm wrong, young man?" and Ryan retorting, "That's exactly what I'm saying--"

"Oh God," Kirsten murmured. With Seth on her heels, she pushed open the door and swept in, ordering, "Stop it, Dad. If you're trying to blame Ryan for what happened outside--"

She broke off in bewilderment as she took in the scene in front of her: Ryan, sitting at Caleb's desk, adding lines to a rough sketch while Caleb stood behind him, one hand on his shoulder, the other pointing to a section of the drawing.

Ryan's head jerked up when he heard Kirsten's voice and he dropped his pencil, stumbling to his feet.

"Kirsten? Seth? What's wrong? What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

Seth's mouth opened and closed before he stammered a response. "Okay, dude, that was totally my line. What are you doing here? Are you okay? Because I found out who Grandpa invited tonight, and shit, when Mom and I saw the pool--"

Ryan flushed, but Caleb waved an arm dismissively and urged him back into his seat.

"The panel didn't work out," he said blandly. "However, Kiki, you'll be happy to know that Ryan and I have reached an understanding."

"The panel never existed," Kirsten retorted. "And before you go on, Dad, there's something you need to understand." She paused as Sandy rushed in, his tie askew and his eyebrows furrowed worriedly.

"Kirsten—Seth, I got here as soon as I could. Ryan, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Ryan's eyes darted uneasily from Sandy to Kirsten and back to Seth. "I'm . . . really confused right now, though."

Seth grinned. "Relax, bro. It's just the last horse in the cavalry. Dad—the human Captain Oats."

"What the hell happened outside?" Sandy demanded. "Cal, I warned you . . ."

Caleb lifted his glass. "Just in time, Sanford," he noted sardonically. "Now the entire Cohen family can hear my daughter put me in my place. That is what you intend to do, isn't it, Kiki?"

"Call it whatever you like, Dad," Kirsten replied. "But if you ever again undermine either one of my boys, or belittle them, or try to manipulate them the way you did with Ryan tonight, you and I are done. Is that clear?"

"Kirsten--" Ryan began uncomfortably, but Caleb cut him off.

"Perfectly clear," he confirmed. "And now, may I speak?"

Leaning back against Sandy, Kirsten folded her arms and nodded curtly while Seth perched on a corner of the desk, watching with avid interest.

"I have already apologized to Ryan," Caleb reported. "This evening was . . . well, why don't we call it a test?" He raised his hand when Sandy began to protest. "Fine," he conceded. "Consider it a trap, if you like. The fact is Ryan acquitted himself admirably. I didn't expect him to behave with such restraint. I certainly didn't expect him to come prepared with ideas for the youth center, much less ones that are innovative and viable. So I'm prepared to admit that I may have been wrong about him."

Lifting his chin, Caleb nodded once, obviously considering the matter closed.

"Yeah, only, Grandpa? Not may have been," Seth argued. "You are wrong about Ryan." Caleb's eyes widened in surprise and Seth grinned, sitting up proudly. "Okay, was that disrespectful? 'Cause I gotta say, it felt totally good. I mean, hey, love you, Grandpa, but really? You've been an ass about Ryan since day one."

"Seth--" Ryan hissed, but Sandy clapped Seth on the shoulder.

"Well said, son," he declared. "And Cal, just so you know? You've been an ass about Seth too. Kirsten and I have two remarkable kids. That means you have two remarkable grandkids. It's time you started acknowledging that fact instead of fighting it . . . Okay, family. What do you say we head home? I'm thinking popcorn and a video. Maybe **_The Great Escape_**." Wagging his eyebrows, Sandy smirked at Caleb. "It's such an appropriate title, don't you think?"

Grabbing his cane, Ryan stood and started to gather his drawings, but Caleb laid his hand flat on the paper.

"Leave them," he urged. "I'd like to have our designers look at them. Perhaps they can call you—that is, if you're willing to work with us on the project this summer."

Ryan caught his breath and nodded. "I'd like that," he said quietly. "That would be . . . great, Mr. Nichol."

Glancing at Kirsten, Caleb gave a wry smile. "Please, Ryan," he suggested. "Call me Caleb."

Kirsten stepped to her father, kissing him quickly on the cheek. "It's about time, Dad," she whispered.

"So," Sandy said expansively, herding his family toward the door. "Who's riding in which car? You've got choices tonight, boys."

Ryan blinked, startled. "Really? Kirsten, you drove?"

"I drove," Kirsten confirmed. "And you can ride home with me, sweetie. We'll talk about plans for the youth center."

"Ah, so that leaves you and me, son," Sandy declared. "What are you in the mood for? I'm thinking one of the classics—maybe some **_Man of La Mancha_**." Sandy cleared his throat and began to sing the first bars of "The Impossible Dream."

"Mom—Ryan, I could ride with you too, couldn't I?" Seth asked hopefully, trotting after them.

Ryan shook his head. "Nope. Sandy likes an audience. Anyway, we'd bore you with design talk."

Seth's shoulders slumped, defeated. "Fine," he muttered. "But if Dad makes me sing Sancho Panza's part, I am totally blaming you, dude." With a pathetic glance over his shoulder, he began to trudge toward Sandy's car.

"Seth, wait," Ryan called. He ducked his head uncomfortably as Seth turned back. "You never told me . . . What about the comic book trade show? Presenting your work to a distributor? You gave that up, man? Why?"

Shrugging, Seth scuffed a toe along the driveway. "I'll have another chance sometime," he said simply. "It just seemed more important to have your back tonight . . . So, catch you at home, right dude?"

"Yeah," Ryan said thoughtfully. "Catch you at home."

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Seth bounded into the kitchen where Kirsten was putting on coffee. "That is totally the wrong smell, Mom," he complained. "Dad and I stopped for the movie. You and Ryan were supposed to make the popcorn. By which I mean, Ryan was supposed to make the popcorn. Where is he anyway?"

"I'm not sure," Kirsten shrugged.

"Ryan!" Seth yelled, racing through the house. "You're shirking your popcorn duties, man!"

He skidded to a stop at the living room door. Ryan was sitting on the floor, already in his sweats and t-shirt, a box of cereal open by his knee. He glanced up from the TV screen, and gestured with his controller.

"Hey," Seth stammered.

"Hey," Ryan replied, smiling shyly. "Wanna play?"

FIN


End file.
